Ben is trying to apply for a job. He doesn’t care what job, anything will do, so you may think this should be easy. But, gone are the days when you saw an ad in a shop window, went in and introduced yourself, had a quick chat and the next day you were back in, working there.
Nowadays you have a hundred hurdles to jump, including seemingly endless application forms to fill out and on-line‘tests’ to pass, examples of which I am about to give you. These tests, it seems to me, are totally idiotic and unnecessary, as well as giving you a completely false impression of the applicant, because they allow no room for intelligent questions. I’m a bit baffled as to what they hope to achieve.
This is a ‘scenario’ test for a job in a petrol station shop.
‘A customer comes in and wants to buy a sandwich. Identify the best and worst course of action’:
Sell them a sandwich and say ‘Have a pleasant day’.
Refer them to a meal deal
Ask if they need anything else
Ask if they’d like to buy a chocolate bar as well.
It seems to me all four are fairly reasonable.
Next scenario:
‘You’ll be closing the store for the night in ten minutes and the last three donuts will have gone over their sell by date by tomorrow. What do you do (best & worst)?’
(This is a deeply serious situation, obviously)
Dispose of the donuts in the stores bin
Give the donuts to staff members
Offer the donuts at a discounted price to customers
Take the donuts home
Well I think the best answer (for the company) would be number 3 because they stand to make some money out of their half stale donuts. Only a moron would think that 2 and 4 were the best answers, but which would be the worst? And aren’t there policies for this sort of thing?
Last one:
‘You’re working the late shift and the store is locked to customers (which means you take cover behind a hatch, but can still remain selling to customers). A seemingly quite drunk person asks to buy a bottle of whisky. Best & worse’:
Sell the whisky
Refuse to sell the whisky
Refuse to acknowledge the person
Tell the person you’ve run out of whisky
Quite frankly, unless you enjoy being physically abused, options 2 and 3 are out of the question, and option 4 might be a little dodgy, so the right option is obvious. And which is the worst option? But again, surely you would get some training in how to deal with drunk people?
So that’s what you’re likely to have to expect (and there are many more questions) to get a job as a shop assistant in a petrol station.
Obviously, to work in a petrol station shop you also need to wear a uniform, so the application form asks you to tick your size. Have you ever seen XXXXL before? That’s one big mama!
Next up is the local Sports Centre.
Here, you are given a list of 20 questions, each of which describes four characteristics (all of them positive). You have to choose two; the one most and the one least like you.
Here is an example:
- punctual
- a good team player
- polite
- well motivated
Now, I may just be stupid, but it strikes me that if you are all of these things, but have to choose one which is least like you, you’re in a lose/lose situation. Is it better to be impolite, or habitually late? It all seems so ridiculous. Why can’t they just talk to you? Or devise a simpler, more useful test?
Job descriptions, too, have changed dramatically. The other day the local Subway shop was advertising for ‘sandwich artists’??????
It’s a mad mad world.
Friday, 27 November 2009
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
swimming news
I've just come back from a rather satisfying swim. The pool was relatively empty, and I was able to avoid any encounter with other swimmers. Always a relief. I still can't get over the combination of chlorine and the incredibly strong aftershave the lifeguards seem to douse themselves in, which always makes me want to wretch.
Anyway, I realised this swimming thing is beginning to get to me. I wrote a blog a while back about the etiquette of swimming; the main point of which was that, without cordoned off lanes, one has to invent ones own; and then stick with the precision of a nucleur missile to your chosen path.
Well, the other day, I experienced my first bout of real 'lane rage'.
This is what happened. I did a quick eagle like scan of any gaps in the lane situation. I spotted one and placed myself over the black line painted on the bottom of the pool, and began my forty lengths. I was just getting into my stride (around length 14, before then I just want to kill myself so that I never have to swim again), when I spied a potential interloper, eyeing my black line from the edge of the pool, assessing her chances of a takeover.
I sent her evil voodoo vibes, but she obviously didn't get it, because in she jumped and off she went. I was horrified. This was MY lane. To make matters worse, she made no attempt to veer off to avoid mowing me down, her powerful crawl creating a wake to rival a cross channel ferry. I got a large gulpful of disgusting pool water, which only increased my blood pressure further. As I coughed and sputtered, she made no attempt to apologise, just carried on careening down MY black line. God, I hate her. I actually wanted to kill her.
She was wearing a pair of goggles which must lead a double life on a ski slope. They were huge. And a dark blue swimming hat. The swimming look is not a good one. And it makes identification in the changing room difficult, if not impossible. I did a quick sweep when I had finished, but couldn't tell if the offender was the pretty young woman drying her hair with a red towel round her, or the older woman having a conversation with the cleaner about Venice (this conversation stemmed from the fact she was cleaning out the gutters which run across the floor - don't ask me what that has to do with Venice, but there must have been some subconscious connection for her). Or perhaps she was hiding in the showers, knowing the danger she was in. For 'lane rage' is not pretty.
Of course, I had no weapon, though a lashing with my goggles would sting. But I am not an overtly violent person (not because I'm kind, but because I'm too much of a coward) preferring to harbour evil thoughts inside. Instead of walking away with the smugness I usually feel after my swim (40 lengths, WOW, I'm impressed) I actually left with high blood pressure.
I really must stop caring quite so much.
Anyway, I realised this swimming thing is beginning to get to me. I wrote a blog a while back about the etiquette of swimming; the main point of which was that, without cordoned off lanes, one has to invent ones own; and then stick with the precision of a nucleur missile to your chosen path.
Well, the other day, I experienced my first bout of real 'lane rage'.
This is what happened. I did a quick eagle like scan of any gaps in the lane situation. I spotted one and placed myself over the black line painted on the bottom of the pool, and began my forty lengths. I was just getting into my stride (around length 14, before then I just want to kill myself so that I never have to swim again), when I spied a potential interloper, eyeing my black line from the edge of the pool, assessing her chances of a takeover.
I sent her evil voodoo vibes, but she obviously didn't get it, because in she jumped and off she went. I was horrified. This was MY lane. To make matters worse, she made no attempt to veer off to avoid mowing me down, her powerful crawl creating a wake to rival a cross channel ferry. I got a large gulpful of disgusting pool water, which only increased my blood pressure further. As I coughed and sputtered, she made no attempt to apologise, just carried on careening down MY black line. God, I hate her. I actually wanted to kill her.
She was wearing a pair of goggles which must lead a double life on a ski slope. They were huge. And a dark blue swimming hat. The swimming look is not a good one. And it makes identification in the changing room difficult, if not impossible. I did a quick sweep when I had finished, but couldn't tell if the offender was the pretty young woman drying her hair with a red towel round her, or the older woman having a conversation with the cleaner about Venice (this conversation stemmed from the fact she was cleaning out the gutters which run across the floor - don't ask me what that has to do with Venice, but there must have been some subconscious connection for her). Or perhaps she was hiding in the showers, knowing the danger she was in. For 'lane rage' is not pretty.
Of course, I had no weapon, though a lashing with my goggles would sting. But I am not an overtly violent person (not because I'm kind, but because I'm too much of a coward) preferring to harbour evil thoughts inside. Instead of walking away with the smugness I usually feel after my swim (40 lengths, WOW, I'm impressed) I actually left with high blood pressure.
I really must stop caring quite so much.
Sunday, 22 November 2009
Minger cards
For his 23rd birthday, Ben received a most entertaining gift. A set of 'minger cards'.
Now I know it's not very kind or very PC to laugh at people, but these were entertaining.
You may have heard of Top Trump cards, the cause of very many heated arguments in playgrounds across Britain, as swapping deals go tragically wrong and irate mothers complain bitterly that some nasty bully has conned their dear little innocent child into handing over his very best Top Trump to Connor, or Wayne, or whoever.
These cards feature items ranging from cars and airplanes, to footballers. They come with sets of statistics and you win them by beating your opponents statistic. I'm not actually sure of the rules, but do know I had several packs of confiscated Top Trump cards in my teacher's drawer when I cleared it out to start my new non teaching life.
'Minger cards' are cousins to these Top Trumps. As well as a photo of someone who is facially challenged (and sometimes bodily challenged as well) they have five ratings on each card in the following categories: Special Skill, Style, Odour, Ugly-o-meter and Minger power. Each category has a number after it. The rules state that 'the first player looks at the top card in his hand and chooses a rating to play. You call out the rating you want to use as you lay the card face up on the table. Your opponent looks at his corresponding first card and lays it down whilst disclosing his score. The highest rating wins and the winner takes the two cards that were played. The winner is the person who wins all the cards.' Not exactly rocket science.
What I want to know is how do you get the job of thinking of the descriptions for each category? What a great job! I want to do it.
Here are some examples. You'll have to imagine the photo.
There's Emma Biggits, whose special skill is 'uncertain blinking' and whose odour is 'cake'; and Cath 'Freaky Cath' Brown whose special skill is 'weasel hunting', her style is roadwork warnings and her odour is 'gin'. Other odours are badger bait, drip tray, wet mittens and train tickets. Lucy Plug's special skill is 'counting to ten'.
The categories 'ugly-o-meter' and 'minger power' do not have a description, just a rating number.
There's one thing that puzzles me. Who agrees to pose for the photos? And would it be possible to be flicking through them and find your own face peering back at you with a caption for special skills such as 'benefit defrauding'.
Anyway, the joke was on me because Ben found an old passport photo of yours truly, and made me my very own minger card. My special skill was 'fat finger typing'; my style was 'expert in writing Inglish' and my odour was 'old red wine'. My name was 'Sandra Winer Stopit'.
I suppose I deserved it really.
Now I know it's not very kind or very PC to laugh at people, but these were entertaining.
You may have heard of Top Trump cards, the cause of very many heated arguments in playgrounds across Britain, as swapping deals go tragically wrong and irate mothers complain bitterly that some nasty bully has conned their dear little innocent child into handing over his very best Top Trump to Connor, or Wayne, or whoever.
These cards feature items ranging from cars and airplanes, to footballers. They come with sets of statistics and you win them by beating your opponents statistic. I'm not actually sure of the rules, but do know I had several packs of confiscated Top Trump cards in my teacher's drawer when I cleared it out to start my new non teaching life.
'Minger cards' are cousins to these Top Trumps. As well as a photo of someone who is facially challenged (and sometimes bodily challenged as well) they have five ratings on each card in the following categories: Special Skill, Style, Odour, Ugly-o-meter and Minger power. Each category has a number after it. The rules state that 'the first player looks at the top card in his hand and chooses a rating to play. You call out the rating you want to use as you lay the card face up on the table. Your opponent looks at his corresponding first card and lays it down whilst disclosing his score. The highest rating wins and the winner takes the two cards that were played. The winner is the person who wins all the cards.' Not exactly rocket science.
What I want to know is how do you get the job of thinking of the descriptions for each category? What a great job! I want to do it.
Here are some examples. You'll have to imagine the photo.
There's Emma Biggits, whose special skill is 'uncertain blinking' and whose odour is 'cake'; and Cath 'Freaky Cath' Brown whose special skill is 'weasel hunting', her style is roadwork warnings and her odour is 'gin'. Other odours are badger bait, drip tray, wet mittens and train tickets. Lucy Plug's special skill is 'counting to ten'.
The categories 'ugly-o-meter' and 'minger power' do not have a description, just a rating number.
There's one thing that puzzles me. Who agrees to pose for the photos? And would it be possible to be flicking through them and find your own face peering back at you with a caption for special skills such as 'benefit defrauding'.
Anyway, the joke was on me because Ben found an old passport photo of yours truly, and made me my very own minger card. My special skill was 'fat finger typing'; my style was 'expert in writing Inglish' and my odour was 'old red wine'. My name was 'Sandra Winer Stopit'.
I suppose I deserved it really.
fat fingers
Until recently, I had no idea I had fat fingers. No one had ever mentioned that they were unnaturally fat, I never felt the need to have a complex about them, indeed, it never occurred to me that fatness of fingers was something which might become a problem to me.
Not until my dear generous husband bought me a mini laptop on which to write my best selling novels (and free up space for him on the ordinary computer). From the start, I found my fat fingers a handicap. It took me twice as long to type anything (and as a trained typist, I do it 'properly' ie using all my fingers) because I kept hitting two keys at once, or hitting the wrong keys. I tried to pretend it wasn't a problem, so as not to upset Rob, but in the end, the swearing and stress my fat fingers were causing became apparent even to him. Fatfingeritis became a recognised disability in our house.
My children can be cruel, and they spent quite a lot of time laughing about my unfortunate affliction. Luckily, they are also brilliantly inventive and Ben came up with a novel solution. He sellotaped pin tacks onto my fingers. This means that only the sharp bit of the pin tack is hitting the keys, instantly transforming my fingers into something akin to anorexia fingers. I can type away, producing text which actually makes sense and does not turn me into some sort of typing retard. Okay, I may look a bit stupid, but I can live with that.
Obviously, some refinement may need to take place before he does a powerpoint presentation to the 'Dragon's Den', but I think he could be onto a winner. Surely I am not the only one in the world to have found that, cute as they are, and practical in terms of fitting into one's handbag, mini laptops are not suitable for everyone, especially those with Fat Finger syndrome?
I wonder if he could now work on something to rid me of my bushy and somewhat uneven eyebrows. Something which does not involve a daily painful plucking expedition. They were another thing I had never really worried about until my sister in law asked me if I ever worried about them. Now, of course, all I see when I look in the mirror are two rather mishapen and increasingly bristly slugs sliming their way across the top of my eyes.
Not until my dear generous husband bought me a mini laptop on which to write my best selling novels (and free up space for him on the ordinary computer). From the start, I found my fat fingers a handicap. It took me twice as long to type anything (and as a trained typist, I do it 'properly' ie using all my fingers) because I kept hitting two keys at once, or hitting the wrong keys. I tried to pretend it wasn't a problem, so as not to upset Rob, but in the end, the swearing and stress my fat fingers were causing became apparent even to him. Fatfingeritis became a recognised disability in our house.
My children can be cruel, and they spent quite a lot of time laughing about my unfortunate affliction. Luckily, they are also brilliantly inventive and Ben came up with a novel solution. He sellotaped pin tacks onto my fingers. This means that only the sharp bit of the pin tack is hitting the keys, instantly transforming my fingers into something akin to anorexia fingers. I can type away, producing text which actually makes sense and does not turn me into some sort of typing retard. Okay, I may look a bit stupid, but I can live with that.
Obviously, some refinement may need to take place before he does a powerpoint presentation to the 'Dragon's Den', but I think he could be onto a winner. Surely I am not the only one in the world to have found that, cute as they are, and practical in terms of fitting into one's handbag, mini laptops are not suitable for everyone, especially those with Fat Finger syndrome?
I wonder if he could now work on something to rid me of my bushy and somewhat uneven eyebrows. Something which does not involve a daily painful plucking expedition. They were another thing I had never really worried about until my sister in law asked me if I ever worried about them. Now, of course, all I see when I look in the mirror are two rather mishapen and increasingly bristly slugs sliming their way across the top of my eyes.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Animal psychosis
Is it possible to have a psychotic animal? If it is, then we do.
Our cat, commonly known as 'Puff' (real name: Puff Daddy Pimp Master Flash, but, as our son pointed out, you can't name a tiny fluffy ginger kitten after a large black rapper, hence the nickname) has serious mental health issues.
He goes from suckling Rob's jumpers - which we refer to as his 'bitty' jumpers (he has his two favourites) to attacking anything that moves. He terrorises the dogs by leaping at their faces, at their tails, at any part of their body which happens to tempt him at the time. Even Bonzo, greedy lab that he is, used to scuttle away from his food to allow room for Puff to have a sniff. Unheard of in Bonzo's world, where food is on his mind about 100% of the time.
Puff seems to have a mysoginistic streak, as well as his psychosis; for he regularly attacks me and goes at it with the determination of a terrier. 'Attacking' involves biting and scratching me quite viciously, mainly on my hands and arms, but he also loves feet. He has drawn blood from Zoe's feet before. The screams coming from the kitchen still make my blood run cold. But then, Zoe can be a bit of a drama queen.
I think one of this problems stems from the fact he actually wishes he was a dog. When he hears the clanking of leads (causing a certain amount of hysteria in the doggy population) he runs and stands by us (ignoring the scrum; he really has no fear of our dogs at all) and meows hopefully. WE have to literally lock him in a room to prevent him running out the door and following us.
When 'treats' are being doled out, for supposedly 'good' behaviour, he waits, expectantly, for his reward. He is extremely put out when he doesn't get one - I'm not sure if cat treats exist? Then immediately runs to Rob for the comfort of 'bitty' and then back on the attack.
He comes when you call (actually, this is more than the dogs do); lies in the dog's basket and plays ball with them. He would much rather have their nasty dried cheap food than his nice expensive Felix pouches.
I've heard of gender issues, so perhaps this is the animal equivalant. A sort of 'I'm a dog trapped in a cat's body' dilemma. I'm sure in the States there would be a counsellor who could help. In the meantime, he will continue to terrorise our entire household.
Our cat, commonly known as 'Puff' (real name: Puff Daddy Pimp Master Flash, but, as our son pointed out, you can't name a tiny fluffy ginger kitten after a large black rapper, hence the nickname) has serious mental health issues.
He goes from suckling Rob's jumpers - which we refer to as his 'bitty' jumpers (he has his two favourites) to attacking anything that moves. He terrorises the dogs by leaping at their faces, at their tails, at any part of their body which happens to tempt him at the time. Even Bonzo, greedy lab that he is, used to scuttle away from his food to allow room for Puff to have a sniff. Unheard of in Bonzo's world, where food is on his mind about 100% of the time.
Puff seems to have a mysoginistic streak, as well as his psychosis; for he regularly attacks me and goes at it with the determination of a terrier. 'Attacking' involves biting and scratching me quite viciously, mainly on my hands and arms, but he also loves feet. He has drawn blood from Zoe's feet before. The screams coming from the kitchen still make my blood run cold. But then, Zoe can be a bit of a drama queen.
I think one of this problems stems from the fact he actually wishes he was a dog. When he hears the clanking of leads (causing a certain amount of hysteria in the doggy population) he runs and stands by us (ignoring the scrum; he really has no fear of our dogs at all) and meows hopefully. WE have to literally lock him in a room to prevent him running out the door and following us.
When 'treats' are being doled out, for supposedly 'good' behaviour, he waits, expectantly, for his reward. He is extremely put out when he doesn't get one - I'm not sure if cat treats exist? Then immediately runs to Rob for the comfort of 'bitty' and then back on the attack.
He comes when you call (actually, this is more than the dogs do); lies in the dog's basket and plays ball with them. He would much rather have their nasty dried cheap food than his nice expensive Felix pouches.
I've heard of gender issues, so perhaps this is the animal equivalant. A sort of 'I'm a dog trapped in a cat's body' dilemma. I'm sure in the States there would be a counsellor who could help. In the meantime, he will continue to terrorise our entire household.
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