…bygones

‘…fuck off to lanzarote’

The Bosses have left for their respective holidays and I must say, unlike last year, when I was spinning in circles, this year, I’ve leaned back, laced my fingers behind my head, put my feet up and said, ‘Ahhh…’.

Because whatever the Bosses are, they’re nothing if not a pain in my ass sometimes. And they’ll not recognise my wee pub when they get back, as I’ve bought new furniture for it and redecorated a bit.

Ach, I’ll deal with them when they get back.

Last week, I had to cover for Boss2 back at my old haunt as he couldn’t be in the pub to welcome a rather important function…imagine my smug half-smile when he said, ‘Can you be there to take care of this for me? I don’t trust That Guy to do it.’

Ha-ha…hahahahhaa.

And when the woman who booked the function entered and I approached her to introduce myself, she cut me off and said, ‘You must be [Miss America]; [Boss2]’s sister…’

For about a half a second, I thought about not correcting her and remaining Boss2’s sister forever in her eyes; but then I remembered that one day I will leave Boss2 for greener (and better paid) pastures and how will he explain it to her then.

I gracefully corrected her by morphing ’sister’ into ‘assistant’, but it made me think…Boss2 had obviously told her I would be taking care of things on his behalf; but did he tell her I was his assistant, or his sister?

I’m an excellent sister.

Boss2 entered mid-function and was pleased, I could tell, with the way everything was going. He drove me back to my wee pub, handed me the ‘Keys to the Kingdom’ saying ‘Happy Christmas’, without emotion as he walked away.

‘Hey’, I shouted, causing him to pause and turn back toward me. ‘Why don’t you just fuck off to Lanzarote or something?’

And he smiled his half-smile as he got in his car and drove away.

Welcome back

Claire-Pepper is back, as of Wednesday; and the world makes sense again. I did have a sharp, fleeting, worried irrationalisation: what if she doesn’t like me anymore?

But, Claire-Pepper and I have this ‘Best friend’ gift…you’ll know about it, surely; where you can pick up the thread of the conversation you were having months ago, as though no time had passed at all.

I had blogged when she left about how I can say just about anything to her without fear of judgement. And on the subway on the way home from the airport, I said something which, said to any other human being, would have brought about a look of disgust.

‘Yes, you’ll be glad to know that after 10 months away, you’ve arrived back to find that I’m still the same snarky bitch I was when you left.’

And she smiled her secret, knowing smile, and I knew then that nothing had changed.

They’re at it….again

Well, it’s that time of year where the bosses, who haven’t learned their lesson from last year, go on holiday again. At the same time. Again.

Last year it was just a mistake; and I was left to deal with the pubs myself. I fretted and moaned but I eventually made my way through it intact.

So, it would stand to reason that they’d try to co-ordinate their holidays so they’re not away at the same time again. Nope. They’ve done it again; and this week Boss1 flies off to Europe with Boss2 following closely behind to a destination of his own.

I thought it was just a mistake…again. But now I think that I did too well last year when they were away that they’ve decided it’s ok to do it again.

Well, it’s not ok. And I don’t know how to make them see that without making myself seem totally incompetent; so once again, I don my armour to ward off stress and ulcers and hold down the fort.

Again.

Decompression

One of the drawbacks to getting a plane to Sussex and back is the fact that my ears (and their connecting canals) have decided to revolt against high altitude and are refusing to equalize.

On the negative side, I can’t hear anything but my own breathing, and yes, disgusting as it is, my own chewing.

But on the positive side, I can’t hear anything.

This allowed me to spend my shift in the pub yesterday totally unaware of the crap banter and stalk around the pub like a stuck-up, ignorant bitch.

So there really is a silver lining to every cloud!

Wedding in Sussex

Dear Paddy and Lil,

Thanks for inviting us Scots (and adopted Scot) to your posh English Wedding. We’d like to apologise for
*drinking from flasks before booze was made available
*alienating your posh relatives
*telling off your dad for not knowing how to pour a pint
*…and then informing him that Carlsberg is, in fact, not a posh belgian beer
*puking in your pond
*refusing to leave at the end of the night
*and singing (loudly) a medley of Scottish songs to which we don’t know the words.

In return, if you could apologise for making me sit next to an arrogant American girl and hiring a fake ceilidh band, then we can just call it square.

Thanks again for inviting us. We hope we may have lived up to the stereotypes attached to the Scottish race.

Oh, and sorry for leaving a myriad of empty whiskey bottles outside your very nice barn.

Congratulations again!

xxx

Never trust a man who’s willing to put his hands in your mouth.

I hate going to the dentist.

I’ve never had a particularly horrible dental experience to back up my loathing of the profession, but it’s the possibility of pain and suffering which keeps me away from the men with the medieval torture instruments.

But, alas, a pain in my tooth finally drove me to mention it to one of my dental student friends; who took a quick look (embarassing when you’re in a public place), and invited me in to the dental hospital.

So, today I went, for the first time in 5 years, to see the dreaded dentist. Because my dentist is also my friend it lessened my anxiety but increased my nervousness. I know that my friend looking at my teeth is not quite the same as a friend who’s also a gynacologist, but it doesn’t feel that different. It’s still pretty intimate and then there’s that pesky fear of pain again…

But Joe was very gentle, he told me everything he was going to do before he did it; which was a good thing up until one point. Then, using the word ‘excrutiating’; which increased my hesitation to open up.

Of course, I then got the giggles; we both did; and I had to force myself not to laugh. In the end, it was fine; I never bled, and I never had to grab him in the family jewels as I had threatened at the beginning of our appointment if something was painful.

All in all, he’s happy with my gnashers, especially given the fact that I haven’t been for a check up in so long. Another appointment in a couple of weeks and that’ll be me.

Phew. I’m glad that’s over with. And now I reward myself with a Vanilla Latte and a candy bar.

Option 2

Sunday was a shit night in the pub; which I knew it would be, based on the footie scores for the afternoon. Tensions would be running high, and my poor mixed pub would be caught in the middle of an ancient battle of ‘my religion is better than yours is and now your team sucks, too’.

Unfortunately, the day also made logical sense for the undesirables to choose Option 2.

So, yeah, I was dreading my shift.

In a pub like mine, when it comes to throwing people out of the pub, or breaking up a fight, you normally have a few regulars who will give you a hand. However, their definition of ‘give you a hand’ and yours maybe entirely different. It breaks down to two types: Regulars who try to hold you back, and keep you from getting involved because they don’t want you to get hurt.
Then there are regulars who stand a minimal amount of distance behind you to see if you can handle things and are ready to jump in if things seem to be getting out of your control.

It is always preferable to have the latter watching your back.

So, sunday night when Pete and I were busy breaking up a fight and ejecting a rather burly man (who was refusing to go quietly, btw), a couple of my very large and intimidating regulars were standing behind us, kinda looming around a bit.

At first, I thought they were just curious about what was happening; but as I forcibly removed the offending customer, all the while shouting words at him which are not fit for print; I heard a soft voice behind me.

‘Should we…?’

‘Nah, she’s got it.’

The next day I got kudos and love from the regulars. But now I’m sayin’ ‘Don’t “bring it“. Just choose option 1. For the love of God, just stay away. I mean it’

firefighter

I’m putting out fires all over the place. And my resolution to clean up my new pub has resulted in me chucking people out on a regular basis.

After our staff meeting on Tuesday; a staff member, Pete, said to me, ‘Can I tell you something? But I don’t want to get the sack…?’

Go for it.

‘I think we need a strong male figure in here. This place is getting out of control.’

I smiled. ‘I’m it. I’m your strong male figure.’

He hesitated. ‘You know what I mean…someone to send a strong message to the riff-raff. Get this place back to being a friendly and non-violent place.’

‘Watch me.’

So, last night I cleaned house. The regulars are all impressed and happy with me; and if I’ve earned a small modicum of respect from the other staff, then I’m happy with that.

The result being that I’ve duly stamped the pub with my resolution of ‘Rat-catcher’. The regulars know I mean business, and hopefully word will get around that this is no longer the place for you to go if you’re barred from everywhere else.

This new reputation could go one of two ways, as I said to Fee yesterday. Either 1) The undesirable punters will get the hint and stay away or 2) The undesirable punters will start streaming in to see if I actually mean business.

Hey, Undesirable Punters! I actually mean business.

Hopefully, they’ll choose option 1. But what I can say so far is that some of the old regulars who had left because of the undesirable punters are starting to creep back in again. So at least my new reputation for the pub has gotten around to the right people.

The bosses seem happy, but interestingly, that means less to me than the opinion of my regulars and my staff.

Bring it. It’s game time, let’s go.

Theatre Wank

The thing about going to the opera is that the only people who go to operas are a) people who actually like opera and b) people who want other people to see them at the opera so they can pretend to be important and cultured enough to fill that gaping hole where self-respect, confidence and personal substance normally linger.

(If you understood that sentence, then congratulations. That was about the most prosaic paragraph of wank I think I may have ever written.)

Monday, I went to the Opera (Manon) because I am a part of Category a).

Unfortunately, I had a couple of girls from Category b) sitting behind me.

Some snippets of their mundane, ridiculous and pathetic chat between acts:

‘I think I’ll move into the city centre. If I get a flat nearby, then I can walk everywhere, and I’ll save so much money on travel. Then; I’ll get a car.’

Fool.

‘I’ve never had a hampster that was so intellectual before. I mean…she just crawls up on my hand by herself. She’s so intellectual.‘

If you don’t know what the word ‘intellectual’ means, just don’t use it.

And, finally, my personal favourite; the quote which clinches the Category b) placement:

‘When she [the lead in the opera] says she’s ‘dying’, is she actually dying? Or is she opera dying?

Lonely at the top

Life’s pretty mundane around these parts lately. Kev’s been on tour for the past month, and though I get him for more than 24 hours this week, when he leaves again on Thursday, I won’t see him for a further two weeks straight.

At work, I have been very wary of becoming too close with the staff, like I did in my other pub, but it seems I don’t have to try too hard. Some are still a bit put out that I’m there. I don’t really care, actually, because I’m there to do my job, not to make friends. It sounds harsh, I know, but at the end of the day, it’s a career.

The upside, if you really want to see it, is that both The Bosses are very happy with the work I’ve done in the pub. The punters are very happy with me, as well, and I carry a lot of respect and clout with me. No one wants to fall out with me, and that’s a very good position to be in.

I have to admit, as well, that after so many months of being on the wrong side of Boss2, I’m glad I’m finally His Girl again. I think that our worst problem was trying to do the same job at the same time. He is back to uttering encouraging phrases like, ‘..when you get a pub of your own…’. One particularly hairy position, however, in which I’ve been put in, is that Boss2 has been letting slip a few unhappy comments about Boss1. The two of them, together a force to be reckoned with, have always stood as One, and never before have I seen cracks of disagreement on either side.

Though I do feel like I’ve been paid a compliment from Boss2 for allowing him to confide in me, at the same time I’m very aware that it’s a slippery slope from here; and ‘the middle’ is not exactly where I want to be. I’m glad he has confidence in my discretion, but I’m very afraid that it might put me in a precarious position.

So, I keep my mouth shut and let him talk, and pray that I never ever let slip anything he has said. I suppose the upside to not having anyone around to talk to, is that I won’t be repeating anything which shouldn’t be repeated.