haonowshaokao

Woke up feeling even more below par than usual this morning and considered phoning in sick, but then remebered that I needed the money and that finding my boss’s phone number would be a bigger hassle than actually going into work. So I actually worked for 5 hours, then told the boss that I may be going home after lunch. I said that I was “a bit feverish and might start saying strange things to the customers.” That worked.

Saturday night was alright. Cooked Thai for Spanish and Slovak people, drank red wine with coke (the house drink) and went out to a rubbish club called Audio, then left to avoid falling asleep on the floor. My old housemate Andy was back at the house vaguely swaying with a bag of gak, so they ran around for a bit, and even had some left over for work today.
Six days of hard labour on the cards now. Two people this morning failed ID questions and wouldn’t get off the line. I used to have sympathy for them, but really, if you don’t know if someone else has got a card on your account then it’s your own fault.

Haven’t been keeping this updated of late as have fairly little to say right now. The job is dull, but no longer driving me crazy. The task of talking to the public has moved down a notch in my head so that I forget what ID questions I asked them when the call ends. Once a day I tune out of the call and realise for a few seconds that there are a hundred people around me all talking, a cacophony of human chat, like in a nightclub when the music goes off. I’ve got a feeling I may soon be able to multi-task and get some creative work done in the office. Would be nice. The best call I had this week was an 85 year old man. We’d sent him a letter informing him he was dead. He didn’t sound 100% sure he was alive, our missive having put a spark of doubt into his mind. My team leader didn’t see the funny side, but it wasn’t my fault anyway.
At the weekend I went to an art-based club night with some friends. It was alright, a bit different, very cool to tell the truth. But what I want right now out of a bar is that it be nearly empty, quiet and not too smoky. A hotel bar. An expensive one.

Last week nearly killed me. Way too much work, nowhere near enough sleep. On Saturday I sat with some people I haven’t seen for a while. Mere kids of 19 years old, working a bit in their gap years. Very respectable and a little conservative. Didn’t know there were young people like that any more. I knew I was in trouble when one asked if I had slept at all in the last week. Further chatting with the most annoyingly inoffensive person I’ve ever met went as follows:
Him- “How old are you then?”
Me- “Twenty-five. Why?”
Him- “We had a bet.”
Me- “What did you say?”
Him- “Thirty-one.”
Oh god.
So I’ve been relaxing, sleeping and eating vegetables. And now I have two days off, so have been making films, music, and stuff.

Some mornings are fine. Six hours sleep, wheatgrass, coffee & crunch cereal, brisk walk down the hill, my wrecked shoes filling with rainwater. Then into reception, past the chatty young trainees to swipe my card past all the security doors, put my phone on mute and my coat on the rack.
Log in with 30 seconds to spare. I’ve got it worked out now. Then wait for the first call.
A ding in my ear. Actress’s voice – “Customer services.” Ding, ding, one, two, “Good morning, you’re through to James in customer services, can I confirm that you’re the principal cardholder?”
And so on. Take a break at 11 and then at 1. I’ve got 32 minutes of “personal time” but there isn’t a men’s toilet on my floor and the one on the floor below seems to be closed for cleaning. Shit.
At 1.30 I get a call from A A Gill. I pretend not to know who he is. Surprisingly he is meticulous in his politeness to me.
Then time for lunch. This is lunch.

And so up at 6.20am to get to call-centre work. Maybe get home at 6pm. On a Saturday.