Another Job I’m Glad I Don’t Have
We were in town at lunchtime doing a spot of shopping for E’s birthday and I tell you what, I came away with bucketloads of sympathy for the lasses who work the cosmetics stands in Boots. Good grief - as if having to get dolled up to the nines every morning and enduring the constant wiff of overpowering mixed perfumes (something where I’m sure if it was in another setting it would be classed as an industrial hazard and result in the issue of gas masks*) wasn’t enough, they’ve also got another peril to contend with.
The Lighthouse Family was wafting down from speakers in the ceiling. Bad enough, goodness knows. But no, that’s not enough. Competing with that, they also have godforsaken pan-pipe desperados WITH A CHUFFING P.A. right outside their door spewing out their version of “My Heart Will Go On”.
Actually, I’d like to say that they not only have my sympathy, they have my admiration. The perfume sellers, not the Andeans. That much provocation would have turned me into an axe-murderer by now, and as far as I know, none of them has cracked yet.
*Establishments staffed solely by women wearing gas masks would likely attract a somewhat small but doubtless ardent clientele…