Prince Albert Gets Shafted, Madonna Sings the Blues and Aunt Jackie lives in Me

Monday evening in our little apartment, I have Madonna on claiming that ”you” don’t know ”What it Feels Like for a Girl”.   Lilsister is busy doing the ironing, because I won’t do it, and has her soaps on to keep her company in the living room.  Monday is her bad day, and in protest at its existence, refuses to shower – this is her stand, and she has been doing it for many years now.

Personally I just like to greet Mondays with a groan, try and get ready for work on time, go down to the tram stop and then scream at the five different validator machines for not accepting my stupid swipe card ticket thing, which is exactly what happened this morning.  People stared and I cried.  It’s Monday – these things shouldn’t happen.  It’s enough to make a girl not shower (but not quite, because I am not an animal).

The long and short of it is that my card is probably broken, and when I rang the dump that issues them, they advised me that they can’t replace it till the card is registered online (?) which I tried to do but the website kept putting in the wrong postcode and then spitting me out to the homepage (or ”spitting on me” as I explained to ”Pam”, the harried customer service person I ended up squawking at when I rang).  This means that Pam cannot cancel my card, nor refund me the money on it, nor issue me a new card, because I am not registered online, and I can’t register online cause the website is being updated, and keeps crashing.

Jesus fucking Christ what is the point in even typing out the words.

FINALLY finished training with The Worst Trainer in Ireland today, hurray.  I even passed one of his stupid tests which he makes us take because he can’t get erections until he sees people stressing out over his non-powers.  When he handed me the test with my 93% result on it, he said he was surprised I passed.  I asked him to explain exactly what he meant, and to maybe just come out and say what he was thinking, but I don’t know, he kept edging towards the door, maybe I had one of my scary faces on.  Doubt it though, I think it was morning time and I hadn’t had my tea yet so I’m not so tough at that stage.  I think.

We ”studied” customer care today, which involved Idiotman not reading from a large manual as we’ve previously had, but from a powerpoint presentation.  Great!  And we watched a video about the famous fish market in Seattle, because allegedly they have amazing customer service skills and spend the day playing catch with fish, so naturally this translates very well into our customer service rolls at the bank.  We also discussed empathy with customers, and Twatbreath talked about how he used to have long hair and piercings, and how he was treated badly at the bank because of his looks.  Doubtful this was the reason, him being a prick and all, but I let him go with it, until he began talking about nipple piercings, which naturally for the men in the room led to discussions on the different types of piercings and piercing methods for their ”Prince Alberts” until I requested permission to speak, and when granted, I said ”heave”, referring of course to the fact that I had had my tea, with two dry crackers and all of the above was about to come spewing out of my mouth.  This did not go down well with Fuckface and we carried on with the designated programme.  My stomach contents calmed somewhat, and the boys looked disappointed.

This didn’t stop one of the girls who sits to my left from breaking out into peals of laughter at the sight of my so-close-it-could-have-happened, heave.  This is a girl who just looks at my face and laughs into it.  It was a little disturbing at first, but now that I’m used to it, it’s actually quite sweet.  Now I look at her and am worried if she DOESN’T laugh.  She also keeps telling me, quite inexplicably, that I am ”exactly like” her Aunt Jackie, whose identity is a mystery to me, but seems to give my comrade some comfort, so it’s good to be of help.

ONE good example of good customer service today though – I cried to the kitchen staff that my vegetarian samosas came without any sort of dipping sauce, but bought them regardless, and attempted to dip them in honey mustard instead – a huge food failure.  As if in a dream, one of the staff then appeared half way through my complaining at my table to deliver a large plate of sweet chilli sauce – success at last!!!  I declared my love for her, and inhaled.  Sigh.

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