If you celebrate Easter, then I wish you a peaceful and happy four-day weekend with your family. If chocolate – lots of it – is your thing, then I wish you all the creamy yummy goodness. If you don’t celebrate Easter then I wish you a great Sunday. And if, like me, you work in retail and Easter Sunday is a single day off in a sea of long hours and even longer shifts, then take a deep breath, enjoy your one day off, and brace yourself for going back tomorrow.
Sorry, this blog is a little late this week. I have worked some long and weird shifts this week and simply have not had the time to sit down and write the blog until Sunday morning. Besides, I figured most people would be enjoying the long weekend so will be having a bit of a lay-in.
Work has been strange since we last spoke. As you may have gathered, I have become increasingly discontented with working every single weekend and every bank holiday, and I am more than done with working on Boxing Day. The pressure of the job is increasing as unrealistic targets are imposed, the recession is beginning to bite, and sales are harder and harder to achieve. I want to start a little Airbnb business to supplement my meagre income, but because my shifts are so unpredictable it’s impossible. People sometimes need to book accommodation months in advance so I must know which days I’m at work – so can block those days out – and which I can safely take bookings for.
The “finger in the wind” nature of my shifts makes this impossible. I am given a four-week shift pattern at the beginning of each month but don’t know my working days any further ahead than that. A friend asked why I couldn’t take bookings on workdays, but honestly, I’ve looked at it from every angle and it’s simply not workable. Guests might need to arrive at any point during the day and I need to be there to let them in, show them the room and the facilities, and give them a key. Yes, I know I could hide the key somewhere or install a key safe, but I don’t like either of those ideas and don’t want a total stranger letting themselves into my home when I’m not there.
I also need to be there for when they wish to check out – to ensure nothing is being taken with them that shouldn’t be and get the key back. Again, this could be at any time during the day. I think it’s the whole “having a stranger in my home when I’m not there” scenario that’s worrying me. Whatever the reason, I am decided I can only let the room on days I am going to be home. And then we’re back to the whole unpredictability of my shifts issue.
Then there’s working every single weekend. It used not to be such an issue but over the past year, I have attended numerous book fairs, sales, and comic cons. Not only are they quite successful for me, but I enjoy them. They take place at weekends. I work every weekend. Do you see my problem? Of course, the events are not every weekend and up until now, my accommodating boss has tried to rota me so if an event is taking place on a Sunday I work on Saturday. I have also used all my annual leave to cover a few whole weekend events. But … and now we come to the crux of the matter, and the reason why I am now feeling something needs to change.
My boss dropped a bombshell two weeks ago and announced that he’d handed in his notice. To say I’m shocked would be an understatement. I genuinely thought he was such a company man that if you cut him in half he would have the company logo all the way through him like a stick of rock. But no, the lockdowns made him realise how much of his young daughter’s life he was missing out on by working all weekend and every bank holiday. He’s had enough. He’s burnt out. And I don’t blame him. It’s not a job for someone with a family. It’s demanding, the hours are long and very anti-social. Working Boxing Day destroys Christmas not only for the worker but for their family. So, I applaud and understand his decision.
But, it has made me stop and think and evaluate my situation.
I’ve known for some time I am merely working to live. That my work/life balance is skewed. Whilst I had a sympathetic boss who tried to help and was lenient about my requests for changes in my shift pattern the situation was just about bearable. But, that boss will be leaving very soon. It’s left me wondering what to do.
We have no idea what our new boss will be like. A dyed-in-the-wool stickler for rules who will make me work all weekend/every weekend? Maybe. We simply don’t know. And it’s that uncertainty that’s making me question everything. Lots of hard thinking has been going on. What am I going to do? I don’t know, is the honest answer. Perhaps the new boss will be even more accommodating, but that won’t solve every problem or change the fact that I think I’m done with retail.
I will keep you posted – and if anyone in the Bury St Edmunds area knows of a part-time job with either no weekend work or is flexible enough to allow for the weekends I am attending shows to be taken off – please let me know.
In other work news, I attended a roadshow in Luton about the new ranges the company are introducing. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Luton before. I know I don’t want to go there again. Sorry, people who live in Luton. I’m sure some parts of the city are lovely – and the roadshow venue was very nice – but the rest of the place looked horrible, and the roads were a joke. Potholes bordering on sinkhole dimensions threatened to rip out the suspension on my boss’s car. Coming home, his Satnav threw a temper tantrum. Instead of taking us the most direct route down the motorway, it detoured us off into the deepest darkest countryside and through tiny hamlets and villages called Little Snoring Under Snot and other such names. The lanes got narrower, the potholes got bigger, the language in the car got bluer, and I swear at one point I heard banjos playing.
Eventually, we popped out onto a motorway and were able to find our way home. I arrived back with barely forty minutes to throw some dinner down my throat, freshen up, and then charge across town for the Poetry and Prose Evening I was attending to celebrate the launch of a fellow Writers of Bury & Beyond author’s book.
The following Sunday was the first Maker’s Market in the Market Cross. Originally, six authors were booked but three dropped out last minute due to Covid and other illnesses, so instead of sharing a six-foot table I had the whole thing to myself.
Bring more books, the organiser suggested.
That’s all well and good, but there’s only so much I can fit on my little trolley. I took more promotional material and bookmarks to fill the gaps with and set off, hopeful of a good day. It was sluggish though. The sun was shining for almost the first time this year, so I guess many people had gone out for the day. I did despair by lunchtime when I had only sold one book and not covered my pitch fee, but the afternoon picked up and in the end, I sold £42 worth of books. Not brilliant, but at least all my costs were covered plus I spoke to lots of people and handed out lots of cards, so you never know.
The next event is the Indie Author Book Fair in St Ives on the 30th of April. I am hopeful that will be a more successful occasion. It looks like it’s going to be quite a large affair so will hopefully be well attended. I am going with three other Writers of Bury & Beyond members and was lucky enough to secure a book reading slot. I’m going to read from Black Ice because people seem to respond very positively to it.
And now we come to the mouse. Ah, yes. The mouse. On Friday morning I came downstairs to get ready for work. To my surprise, my cat was lying in the lobby by the washing machine instead of her usual spot asleep on the rocking chair. I petted her, then disappeared into the bathroom to have a shower.
Lathered up with shampoo, I heard a loud thump on the bathroom door and stopped to listen. Skittles? I called. An answering miaow reassured me that it wasn’t an axe murderer but was my stupid cat – probably playing with a shoelace dangling from the shoe rack opposite the door.
I wandered from the bathroom wrapped in a towel to put the kettle on and found the cat right outside the door peering into the shoe rack. A suspicion stirred. Carefully, I pulled the rack out and a fricking mouse leapt two feet in the air and hurdled over the shoe rack. I yelped. The cat pounced. The mouse shot back under the rack into the corner, followed by the cat.
Catch it! I yelled. Kill it! Kill it!
I know that sounds very “Roman Emperor bloodthirsty of me” and like I am afraid of mice. I’m not. I think mice are sweet and adorable – in the right environment – and my kitchen at 6:30am is not the right environment.
The cat failed to catch the mouse which shot under the shoe rack, into the bathroom, and straight under the tub. Bugger. Not sure what to do, I had to finish getting dry and dressed knowing it was only a foot away from my feet. I rummaged through the drawers and found a mousetrap from the last time the cat remembered her hunter roots. I baited it with some ham and set it down by the tub. Closing the bathroom door, I left the trap to do its job, confident the mouse would be dead before I had to go to work.
Half an hour later I checked, the ham was gone, and the trap had not sprung. Damn it. I cut a piece of cheese and wedged it onto the bait spike and put the trap down again. I finished getting ready for work and just before I left, looked in the bathroom. The cheese was gone, and the trap was still sitting there. What the actual…?
This time I jammed half a grape onto the spike, thinking it would make the mouse pull on it and spring the trap. I went to work. All day, I wondered what I would find when I got home.
No grape. No dead mouse. The trap sitting there.
Aggh, I shoved more cheese on. Nope. The mouse ate that as well. This mouse must be seriously loving this hotel and planning on giving it five stars on trip advisor.
Before going to bed I pierced a hole in a frozen piece of mango and shoved it firmly onto the bait spike. Got you, I chortled, this will surely make you tug firmly enough to spring the trap.
I went to bed. Early in the morning, I stumbled downstairs to go to the loo. Sitting there bleary-eyed there was a flash of movement beside me – and the mouse ran straight over my feet and back under the tub! I was so shocked I nearly peed on the floor. I examined the trap. Half the mango was gone, and the trap still not sprung.
Now thinking I had a defective trap or a very clever mouse, I got dressed and walked to B&Q and enquired about mousetraps. I asked if they had a humane one because I had formed a grudging admiration for Peter – the mouse by now had a name – and didn’t want to kill him. Nope, they didn’t sell them. I bought a box-like contraption that promised to lure the mouse in, kill him with one quick snap, and then seal the box ready for me to dispose of his corpse in the bin. Sorry, Peter, but you’re going down.
By the time I got back, Peter had taken the other half of the mango – cheeky bugger.
I tried to figure out the instructions which were in every language but English. I baited it with cheese and went to work. Surely, I thought, when I get home it will be to find Peter dead in the box and that will be an end to it. Nope, you’ve guessed it, the cheese was gone and there was no dead Peter.
I baited it again – this time with ham – and went to bed.
So, what did I find this morning? Yep, that’s right. Peter still lives. This mouse must be approaching obesity by now with all this fine dining he’s doing at my expense. The bathroom is also starting to smell of mouse. I want him gone now.
I’ve jammed a piece of cheese in the far end of the box trap so he will have to stand on the trigger pad and tug at it. That was an hour ago. Hold on, I will go and peep at the trap … Nope, still intact with the bait there. As of now, Peter still lives.
Now, I know many of you will be rooting for Peter – I know I would be – but I can’t have a mouse living under my bathtub. Mice pee and poop constantly and it smells. Also, if I do get my Airbnb up and running I can’t expect guests to share the bathroom with a mouse. Can you imagine the reviews? I did try to buy a humane trap because I planned to take him to work with me – why yes, it is “Bring your mouse to work day”, did you not get the memo? – and set him loose in the big patch of woodland behind the store. But B&Q didn’t sell them, and I didn’t have time to go anywhere else. So, sorry, but what can I do? It’s not like mice are an endangered species, I’m not setting a trap for a white rhino – jeez, imagine one of them under your tub?
I will let you know the conclusion to this mouse tale next time.
In the meantime, I am going to stop here because I am out of things to tell you and as it’s now 9am you will all be wondering where the blog is.
Happy Easter Everyone.
Julia Blake
A Little Bit of Blake 