Friday, August 28, 2009
Sweet baby Jesus.
Sitting around a table in a heated argument, where your creative input into a uber corporate subject may almost be sound, if it weren’t for the gigantic piece of green basil wedged between your front incisors.
You deplore into the realms of corporate call centres – the very pit of Satan’s dungeonous Hell - for consumers and employees alike – giving your supposedly very experienced and knowledgeable opinion – which sounds almost plausible, save the fact that you have a fucken veggie garden growing from your front chompers.
Sprung from the salad drizzled in virgin olive oil for the first course. Which you only see an hour later when you smile at yourself in the bathroom mirror. [‘WOAH there. Shit.’]
Don’t throw your CDs at me or nothing, but it negates perhaps every intelligible statement you’ve cunningly garnered up from the deep recesses of your brain.
So, now that I’ve dis-wedged the said profanic piece of parsley from your gnashers, here’s the argument:
Call centres at banks. We hate them; we hellopeter.com them, we want to arsenic their coffee. And they hate their jobs, let’s be perfectly frank.
Being a bank, per se, do you think its better they come into work (top-of-the-range blue-tooth equipment strapped about their throbbing craniums):
1) dressed in suit
2) dressed in shorts and slops/barefoot.
Come on. Isn’t moral, or lack thereof, very 2003? Heated debates arose over a Beyerskloof Shiraz, whereby one party argued that the mindset should reflect the bank itself (suit and tie), and the other (me) said that short and slops would at least give them a fucken break.
And maybe they’d actually enjoy coming into work. Whether it’s a fucking financial institution or not.
It’s not that they have to see clients; and frankly, being a call centre operator might just be up there with being someone who has to clean the communal shitters.
If they came into work wearing beach garb, this may create a more…incentivising, if not chilled atmosphere. The other party reckoned – wrongly I believe - that in a suit – dressed like the CEO – their mindset would reflect the business they were selling.
Oh, and the sweet swinging balls of a Spanish donkey.
I did something yesterday – before dinner and wine – very important – that might’ve been slightly mental.
Or less derogatorily, spontaneous. I blame my heavy mindset and other very important factors.
Hypothetically, would you say booking and paying for a flight to Italy for 6 days of pure pleasure is:
2) romantically spontaneous
4) progressively lifestyle oriented?
At end of September, I’m booked to go to Rome. I’m meeting someone there.
Cue mozzarella, wine and nakedness.
See, not so stupid now, is it. prioritisation of spend maybe. In line with my goals: travel. A [rather extravagant] birthday present for myself even.
Almost straight afterwards I’ll be in Ireland and the UK for two weeks, but that’s business.
This is pleasure. I don’t know why we chose Italy. Personally I was gunning for France, but now I really believe Italy is first choice.
Good gracious – basta e merdo – I’m going to Italy for 6 days.
The name of Ant’s dog.
Haven’t been there in ten years. Good Lord I’m so excited I could die in a vat of parma ham.
Spontaneity – Italian spontaneity – amidst a life of tedium. Epic. And wonderful. Frankly.