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rosehip november, autumn i'll remember
Nov. 19th, 2008 09:31 pmThe most unnerving thing your managers can possibly say to you when you walk into the store: "Oh hey, Jolene! We were just talking about you!"
Cue nervous laughter. I really hope you lot were discussing the fact that I have superlatively awesome hair, or better yet, that I am always friendly, cheerful, and teachable and do not grumble even when you tell me I can't write on the job (...until I get home) and that you totally want me to work in the store with you because I am awesome and books love me so much that they purr when I pick them up.
So, yes. Today I did not write on the job. (Except, ah, two sentences. And some notes, because I always write down interesting people I see & suchlike. And also I HAVEN'T NANOED AT ALL TODAY and must get on that very soon oh rubbish.) I also had a half decent amount of customers, a couple of nice friendly chats, and managed to close up for my shift without any help at all. Also: no-one buys Twilight calendars, but they certainly examine them a great deal. Some punk twenty-something mimed licking one as she passed and I was very disturbed, but not nearly as disturbed as when a pair of elderly ladies stopped by and looked at them. I am really just hoping that they were researching the phenomenon that has felled their granddaughters, because I think Twigrandmoms are more than I can take. (Someone did examine a BtVS calendar and I was pleased. Also a woman asked if there was any possibility of Amelia Bedelia calendars, which MADE MY DAY. No, we do not have any; we are not that cool; I do not know if they even exist; but: my childhood, I love you!)
Then I rode home on my bicycle and it was horrifically cold, ugh.
Monday I slept over at Meholicks, which was grand -- and rather surreal. Sleeping on the floor of your old bedroom is a deeply odd experience, and the only thing odder is sleeping on the floor of your old bedroom when it is once again inhabited by the people who inhabited it before it was your bedroom, and you slept on the floor there back then, too. It's like -- there are layers of ghosts in that house. Some things are back to the way I remember them from before -- the mirrors in the downstairs hall, which I have always loved because I always look fantastic in them, for example, and the large table in the dining room. But the piano is in the old playroom, and the walls are all different colours, and when I go into the bathroom it is exactly as though I am back in my house three months ago, except the light-switch actually works, and the shower curtain is different. I spent two years walking around the house encountering ghosts of its previous life, and now I am encountering ghosts of my life there -- always knocking over Mum's wooden church on the windowsill when I'd run downstairs, dancing in the kitchen (I am such a headphones kitchen dancer), my bedroom and everything that entailed. Waking up for a moment in the middle of the night and tilting my head back to see the stars glinting over the church in the window was strange in its tilted familiarity.
(Also we had all kinds of fun.)
When I walked home in the morning -- afternoon, rather; it was nearly one but felt morningy -- it was snowing in that bright, sharp November way, all tiny fierce flakes blowing round the grey-gold-brown of bracken and lonely trees and blustery magnificent green and grey glower of sky in between the branches, and that lovely sort of cold that stings you into aliveness. Hannah said, "It's such a miserable November! Isn't it lovely?" I listened to Vashti Bunyan on the walk and it was glorious (and she is glorious! oh seventies psych folk, I love you so; why do you always feel like coming home?), although my nose got very chilly.
alkhsdlgkhgh need to write now or I will probably die horribly.
(Also? By all rights and evidences I should feel really rather good just now, but I -- don't. I feel heavy and sort of not-yet-sick and pessimistic. Ugh.)
Cue nervous laughter. I really hope you lot were discussing the fact that I have superlatively awesome hair, or better yet, that I am always friendly, cheerful, and teachable and do not grumble even when you tell me I can't write on the job (...until I get home) and that you totally want me to work in the store with you because I am awesome and books love me so much that they purr when I pick them up.
So, yes. Today I did not write on the job. (Except, ah, two sentences. And some notes, because I always write down interesting people I see & suchlike. And also I HAVEN'T NANOED AT ALL TODAY and must get on that very soon oh rubbish.) I also had a half decent amount of customers, a couple of nice friendly chats, and managed to close up for my shift without any help at all. Also: no-one buys Twilight calendars, but they certainly examine them a great deal. Some punk twenty-something mimed licking one as she passed and I was very disturbed, but not nearly as disturbed as when a pair of elderly ladies stopped by and looked at them. I am really just hoping that they were researching the phenomenon that has felled their granddaughters, because I think Twigrandmoms are more than I can take. (Someone did examine a BtVS calendar and I was pleased. Also a woman asked if there was any possibility of Amelia Bedelia calendars, which MADE MY DAY. No, we do not have any; we are not that cool; I do not know if they even exist; but: my childhood, I love you!)
Then I rode home on my bicycle and it was horrifically cold, ugh.
Monday I slept over at Meholicks, which was grand -- and rather surreal. Sleeping on the floor of your old bedroom is a deeply odd experience, and the only thing odder is sleeping on the floor of your old bedroom when it is once again inhabited by the people who inhabited it before it was your bedroom, and you slept on the floor there back then, too. It's like -- there are layers of ghosts in that house. Some things are back to the way I remember them from before -- the mirrors in the downstairs hall, which I have always loved because I always look fantastic in them, for example, and the large table in the dining room. But the piano is in the old playroom, and the walls are all different colours, and when I go into the bathroom it is exactly as though I am back in my house three months ago, except the light-switch actually works, and the shower curtain is different. I spent two years walking around the house encountering ghosts of its previous life, and now I am encountering ghosts of my life there -- always knocking over Mum's wooden church on the windowsill when I'd run downstairs, dancing in the kitchen (I am such a headphones kitchen dancer), my bedroom and everything that entailed. Waking up for a moment in the middle of the night and tilting my head back to see the stars glinting over the church in the window was strange in its tilted familiarity.
(Also we had all kinds of fun.)
When I walked home in the morning -- afternoon, rather; it was nearly one but felt morningy -- it was snowing in that bright, sharp November way, all tiny fierce flakes blowing round the grey-gold-brown of bracken and lonely trees and blustery magnificent green and grey glower of sky in between the branches, and that lovely sort of cold that stings you into aliveness. Hannah said, "It's such a miserable November! Isn't it lovely?" I listened to Vashti Bunyan on the walk and it was glorious (and she is glorious! oh seventies psych folk, I love you so; why do you always feel like coming home?), although my nose got very chilly.
alkhsdlgkhgh need to write now or I will probably die horribly.
(Also? By all rights and evidences I should feel really rather good just now, but I -- don't. I feel heavy and sort of not-yet-sick and pessimistic. Ugh.)
