Fragments

As many of you will know, on Friday morning our weekday normality was shattered by a chunk of roof tile.

We were running late, as usual (I am one of those people who is perpetually late). My car is an absolute state at the best of times, so for a split second I thought the tile was just another piece of shit I’d gathered on my travels that’d ended up on the passenger side floor. At the same time that I spotted the tile, I registered that it was chucking it down, so I flicked the wipers on. What was left of the back window rained in to the boot. My heart lurched to the tinkling tune of breaking glass.

“What the fuck…”. It was Joel’s voice. I glanced from the gaping hole in my car to the piece of tile on the floor and his eyes followed. “What the FUCK,” he repeated, lurching out of the car to open what was left of the boot.

It was becoming increasingly clear with each passing second that I was about to lose my shit. I don’t know why I said “what was in the boot” at this point, my voice shrill and melting in to a sob by the fourth syllable. I knew what had been in the boot.

.........

I don’t carry a handbag, I carry a backpack. It’s a habit that’s left over from my football-playing, boy-fighting childhood. I’d carried that burgundy Jack Wills one around the world, from Australia to Europe to Iceland to America to the Maldives to Southeast Asia…

At the bottom of the bag were the tokens of my journeys. Tickets, keyrings, Disney badges, GoPro accessories, an underwater case for my phone, all manner of currency. Gifts that Joel had gotten me for our very first anniversary.

In addition to all of that, there was a lot of shit (e.g. a 5 year old pack of Microgynon – remember that girls – and random bits of A Level revision). Joel had been on at me to clear that bag out for years. He said the stuff I was hoarding was taking up space that could be used for stuff we actually needed, hahaha.

I’d been to uni on the Thursday evening; I’d needed to renew a couple of books at the library. That bag had carried many many things in its time, and that evening it contained all of my notes, 2 library books and my purse. I should’ve taken it out of the car. Of COURSE I should have. The one night my purse was in my bag and not in the house… But isn’t that always the way it goes?

That night, Joel had football and I had a gin (or 3). I was stressed about money. We did manage to scrape enough together for the rent but I haven’t shopped for everyone for Christmas yet. That makes me miserable because my mother deserves an island for Christmas and all I can afford is a fucking selection box.

I went to bed semi-drunk. I was upset with myself for not getting a job sooner, for not ringing home enough, for not making enough of an effort with friends and more importantly, with Joel. Of course, I dealt with that by shutting off from everyone and not waiting up for Joel. Classic Dover behaviour.

.........

So, you see, when I realised my backpack was gone on Friday morning, I was already on the brink of an absolute meltdown. I think Joel thought I’d actually lost my mind. I was distantly aware of him taking my phone off me as a screamed the fucking house down. “Shhhh Char… Char… Char, I’ll get your mum”.

My mum is my reset button. No matter how much I screw everything up, she evens it out again. I told her this and she said, “Just don’t fucking get arrested there’s nothing I can do about that.” I don’t think she’s giving herself enough credit. Sure enough, everything is OK again thanks to her, gramps and Julian. What a phenomenal set of parents I have.

One thing I do want to comment on as part of this post is the fractured state of our emergency services. Of course, as well as my mum, we phoned the police. A kind officer came around to the house having found some of my stuff. Shame about the torrential rain, though, because not a lot of it was salvageable.

Anyway, she took some details down and I pointed out the CCTV camera on the house opposite ours. The family who live there are really lovely and had helped me cover the broken window with sheets of plastic in the pouring rain (probably because I looked like a blubbering nutcase). She said she would have a look at the footage but if there were no clear faces “it probably wouldn’t make any difference”.

As in, “there’s probably nothing we can do about it”. That message was loud and clear from the police on Friday. My car is a mess of rainwater and glass, my precious things are gone or ruined, I have no money to fix the window… And there’s nothing you can do about it.

That isn’t anyone’s fault individually. Our emergency services are a casualty of the cracking economy. Today, the police are nothing more than an illusion of protection. 3 times in my life I have found myself needing the police, and 3 times in my life a lone officer has given me a crime number and said, “there’s probably nothing we can do about it”. I thank god I haven’t yet needed an ambulance.

I know I sound like a conspiracy theorist (you should hear Joel), but this is not sustainable. There is nothing deterring people from committing crime anymore. Officers patrol alone and cover impossibly large areas. Theft and vandalism are being ignored and, to be honest, it frightens me that one day I might be raped or worse and hear those gutting words, “there’s probably nothing we can do about it.”

The hands of the police are tied. Our great NHS is on its knees. I’m not clever enough to figure out what we’re supposed to do about it, but we must do something. If we don’t, the jagged fragments of our country will cut us open, one by one.

A Job's Worth

Alongside my academic pursuits and in between our ‘world tours’ (as grandad calls them) I’ve had a part time job since I was 16. From the moment I stepped out of Priory for the last time, Trace was on my back to get a job in a shop or a restaurant to make some pennies and learn some life lessons.

Around the same time I started my A Levels, I got offered a job at The Catherine’s Inn where grandad used to take me and Charley Williams every Monday lunchtime in between our college classes. I was thrilled (mostly because it would get mum off my back).

I distinctly remember my first shift, in which one of my now-colleagues slammed a door in my face, I took the wrong thing to the wrong table too many times and my now-manager called the lady on table 1 ‘fat cunt’. I was fresh out of school and way out of my depth…

In time, I grew to love the crazy pub life. I learned how to run with hot plates for 8 hours without a break. I learned to swear like a sailor in the kitchen and smile like an angel out front. I learned that if you’re too slow, you’ll get the shit ripped out of you. Have you ever worked in hospitality? Its NUTS.

I stayed at this job for 2 years, until I met Joel in 2014. Back then, his sister was the manager at The Cellar Wine Bar, and he worked in the kitchen there. As soon as I met the girls and did a shift with them, I knew it was time to leave the Catherine’s. You wouldn’t believe the amount of times I bawled my eyes out at/about that pub, and yet when I handed Justin my notice, it was with a heavy heart. That place grew me up, and I made the most unforgettable friends.

Justin, I appreciate now how nice it was to have you as a manager. I’m back in hospitality now and it’s so weird without you! Hope all is well up there.

Anyway, The Cellar is gorgeous; a quaint, homely wine bar which doubles up as a café during the day. A little (lot) more high-class than the Catherine’s, which was an absolute dream to now 18-year-old me.

I am so pleased to say that I’m still working at The Cellar every other weekend. My very best friends work or have worked here, and The Cellar feels as much like home as anywhere else in the South West.

Recently, we’ve been faced with the realisation that Joel’s full-time job isn’t enough to run a house (and keep a hungry little Tiger). I would’ve liked nothing more than to focus on my MA but there we go – real life is unforgiving. I applied for a load of jobs and, in the end, I heard back from 2. A pub and a beauty counter at Boots.

I went to both interviews and the pub offered me a job on the spot (I’ve been waitressing since I was 16 so I kind of expected to get this one). They even said they were happy for me to go home every other weekend to work at The Cellar and see my family. Nothing from Boots which I was a bit disappointed about because I fancied trying something new. Oh well, I thought, I only need 16 hours. I started working at the pub and everyone seemed really lovely. The job was similar to the Catherine’s (hard work but somewhat fun when you get in to it).

Weeks later, Boots called. They said they’d like to offer me the job. I said “great”, hung the phone up and immediately regretted it… There was no way I’d be able to manage 2 jobs in Nottingham and still be able to visit the family every other weekend.

In the end, my decision was made simple by the Boots rota. They had put me on a short six-week contract (to cover them over Christmas) and wanted me in throughout December with little room for manoeuvre. They had me on 25 hours. Joel’s birthday is in December, The Cellar Christmas party is in December, and Santa comes in December, too, of course. Some things in life aren’t worth compromising. It is a part time job – not a career. I told them I wasn’t prepared to sacrifice important time with my family and friends and left it at that.

I’m loving the pub job to be honest. It gets me out the house, I am making some lovely friends and a little bit of money, too. Most importantly, the managers understand my other commitments, from uni to going home to live my old life every other weekend. I’m way less stressed working for people like that than people who aren’t willing to acknowledge that a) I have a life outside of my part time job and b) my future career (and my heart) is in Language and Literature, not, in fact on their makeup counter...

With regards to the hospitality/retail debate, I think everyone’s different. Joel can’t stand waiting tables but he worked in Tesco for a long time without complaint. I did 2 shifts at Boots and didn’t enjoy the sales-driven atmosphere at all. I’ll take the late nights and the running about any day of the week.

Remember, fundamentally, a part-time job’s worth is money, especially when you’re doing it alongside another job or education, but it can be more than that. An understanding of your needs and your existence as a 3-dimensional human being makes it more than that. Your team make it more than that.

I’ll tell you what my mum said, shall I? Part-time jobs in retail and hospitality are ten-a-penny. If they aren’t willing to employ you as a person, only a number, then fuck ‘em. Go work your 16 hours somewhere else.