Tag Archives: self-service

doors

Doors

Yesterday I left the flat to go job hunting. Everybody goes about this arduous activity in different ways, but for me this involved walking down the street with my hands in my pockets, kicking a stone along, and wishing that I had a treehouse.

Every so often I would look in a shop window to see if there were any signs advertising vacancies for in-store writer wannabes, bed testers, or beer tasters – but there weren’t any.

I did a circuit of the library and the town’s two bookshops, hoping to see signs stating they needed someone to check the plots – but there weren’t of those either. My final option was the Job Centre, but that was just depressing, so I did the bookshop-library-bookshop circuit another couple of times in case a sign had gone up in the meantime.

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Self-Service

Ash-Matic Does Self-Service

Self-service in super-markets is a wonderful thing. And when I say wonderful, I mean frustrating, error-prone, self-defeating, and shit. Of all the pieces of technology that piss me off, only printers are worse than these fuck-wit self-service machines.

Last night I was in my local supermarket, wishing to purchase the following items:

  • A crate of cheap cider – destined to pollute the lovely Miss-Matic’s stomach.
  • A couple of bottles of Indian beer; one Mongoose, and one Cobra. These two babies were going to battle it out for my affection.
  • A cake, made of layers of white and red stuff (or maybe red and white stuff – I forget).

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