Sign 'o the times

I think I was about 8 the first time I had a go at writing my signature. We’d been learning joined-up writing in ink pens at school (very exciting) and I thought an ‘autograph’ would be useful as an alternative to just writing ‘My name is Jessica Bryant” and “This is my new pen” all the time.

My mum had a pretty good looking signature. It followed an inclining line with a big swirly ‘P’ and matching loopy ‘B’ and ‘y’ in ‘Bryant’. (Incidentally I later discovered a knack of being able to copy it which came in handy several times during school but I won’t tell you about that. My Dad’s signature was better still. A professional draftsman, his writing was and still is something of a work of art. He uses his full name (Michael) and puts a cute little flicky thing underneath the ‘ae’ part which I still don’t fully understand but which looks pretty cool and was something I thought I’d copy.

Not including these first primary school efforts I’ve had three signatures in my life due to my taste for wedding cake. This does not include all the times I’ve put my first name next to that of the boy or footballer I was besotted with at the time, of which there were too many too mention. I love the individuality and self-expression of it all. When you first need to find a signature you are probably entering adulthood (first bank card etc) so it becomes a sort of rite of passage. If you are a girl then it crops up again if and when you get married. If you so choose, you (legitimately this time) get to work out how your name works next to that of the man you love - also very exciting and a big part of who you have become.

Aside from being (or pretending to be) a celebrity and writing cheques (which we don’t really do anymore do we) signing a debit or credit card receipt was the last main opportunity we had to regularly try out our autographs. I was therefore disappointed when in 2004 we all had to start entering PINs instead. PINs are dull and despite the supposed added security of the Chip & PIN process I for one feel decidedly less secure than I used to, convinced half the time that some thug is lurking over my shoulder, memorising my PIN and is about to swoop in, steal my purse and nick all my assets.

What I find to be the single most irritating thing about the whole PIN experience though is this: Standing at the till having slotted my card in the reader and patiently waiting for the instruction to enter my PIN to pop up in the display you have to listen to some @*%! mumble, “Can you enter your PIN, please.”

Er, as opposed to what exactly? Put the kettle on? Do the Can-Can? What the crap do you think I’ve been standing here waiting for? Or do you currently have a special offer on insulting the customer’s intelligence?

I wasn’t even going to write about this today but this happened to me three times this week. Yesterday topped it off when one particular dingbat also asked me ‘if I had a Nectar card’ when said Nectar card was actually being handed to him. I’ve been in the Customer Experience business for a few years now but you don’t need to do what I do to know this ‘state the bleeding obvious because you’ve been trained to say it not because it has anything to do with what’s actually going on in front of you’ service is just crap. Had I been daydreaming/drunk/in any other way incapable and needed a prod to enter my PIN, fine. But I wasn’t/wasn’t/am not so please wait an extra second before spilling out this kind of irritating waste of English.

Maybe I’m just grumpy in shops. My husband says I’m a nightmare to sales assistants and I have to confess I think I am. Some poor lad in Boots got both barrels too this week when trying to foist an extra snack on me because I’d had the audacity to only buy a drink and a salad in Boots. “But with the Meal Deal it’s cheaper if you have one.” He said. “But I don’t WANT one”, I snapped. If I buy a snack, I have to eat the snack and I am trying not to eat more than I need to. I’d rather take a hit on the extra 50p than the calories if it’s all the same to you and more importantly I just want to buy what I came in for!

The point of this particular moan was not so much the calorie thing, that’s a whole ‘nother subject. It was rather that we seem to have sacrificed individuality for the ‘generic’. We get shuffled about like sheep, told where to walk, how to buy our lunch, and when to do the simplest of tasks we were about to do anyway then given the same service and customer experiences shops and service providers want us to have because it’s easier to train staff the same way and set them the same targets to sell the same number of bloody Meal Deals.

I know a lot of this is down to how big companies work. We don’t always have the data to know exactly what everyone really wants and have to go for critical mass. I should know, I’m in the business and I’d love to have the means to really treat all my customers as individuals, as unique as their signatures – or PINs. Sorry.

Don’t listen to me anyway. I got duped in the Co-Op again after innocently chucking a bag of Cadbury’s Mini-Eggs (well, it is nearly Easter) into my basket.

“They’re 2 for £1.90.”

“How much is one?”

“£1.09”

“Oh, go on then.”

If I carry on like this, it’s unlikely my next signature will be Jessica Beckham...


Jec
xxx

Grumpy Old Woman in training

I turned 35 this week. I am completely happy about this. So much so that I hereby, proudly declare myself a ‘Grumpy Old Woman in training’. My inner ‘Grumpy’ has been creeping up on me for ages but this week has sealed it for me - can someone please tell me where I sign?

On a recent trip to the bank I took a short diversion into Miss Selfridge largely to marvel at what the young people are wearing these days. (It’s probably worth pointing out that my days of Miss Selfridge shopping ended c. 1988. I can still hear my school-friend’s mum’s wise words when we, aged 13, trooped off to Kingston with thirty quid in our purses: “Don’t spend it all and don’t get anything that’s ‘dry clean only’"!)

Anyway, inside I quickly realised that if they don’t do your size (16, sadly, since you ask) then they probably don’t want you darkening their door. Everything and everyone was tiny: under 14 (in both senses) and Über trendy. It was like I was on another planet that looked a bit like twenty-odd years ago but with less fabric. It was your basic ‘you’re old you know’ smack in the face. But, my friends, I would happily take out another mortgage, move-in and redirect my post to my local Miss Selfridge than ever again have to set foot inside another Hollister.

If you haven’t been to a Hollister or an Abercrombie & Fitch then you’ve probably heard about them. It’s an amazing experience. Everything is styled to perfection including – sorry – especially the staff who are young, beautiful and stylish – and that’s just the boys. How they get away with it in 2010 with all our equal opportunities legislation is beyond me.

If you happened to be in the Bluewater Hollister today you would have seen me. I was the one with the ‘clearly shopping for someone else’ sign flashing above my head. Thankfully for my husband and daughter there isn’t enough room to manoeuvre a buggy around inside (this speaks volumes on the sort of rich teen clientele they are after) so they waited outside. Had they been with me they would likely have felt much as I did when, as children, my brother and I had to listen to my Nan ask for the ‘knives & forks’ in MacDonalds.

There are two words that come to mind when in Hollister: Dark and Small. The place is sooooo dark and the clothes (and the gaps between the rails) are sooooo small. Partly because I couldn’t entirely see where I was going but mainly because of the lack of material on show I honestly thought I was in the children’s section. But no, some women clearly live on water and polo mints and can actually wear these clothes. Still, at least I now know what a size zero actually looks like. Shame they are available in shops – they should only be available in some kind of Victorian style freak show. It’s enough to make me pick up the phone and order pizza except I already have.

I bought three things (FLASH: Not for me, FLASH: Not for me) and left with the obligatory brown paper bag. Annoyingly this made me feel a bit cool and I will probably keep it and trot it out occasionally in that lame way people do to imply they have just/always bought/buy something fab/expensive like when you keep Gucci and Tiffany bags. I just hope my brother likes his shirts or else I fear a return trip may be required.

If all this makes me sound bitter and twister about my age then I should point out that I am really not. Ok, so I may not legitimately be able to claim to be in my early thirties anymore but I have a theory that people only get really unhappy with their age if they don’t feel they’re quite where they want to be in their lives. Sure, I’d love more cash and another child and few more holidays but I’m pretty happy with my lot. Add the fact that I have never been skinny (and consequently afraid of ‘losing my figure’) and that I had my first grey hairs in my early teens and generally speaking I don’t think middle-age has much to keep me in fear of.

Incidentally, I have started to notice that my skin actually looks better without foundation (too much emphasis on the fine lines) . So hand me the tinted moisturiser and let me get on with my ‘Grumpy’ practice. I intend to be fabulous at forty anyway so, ner.

Jec
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