What Movie am I in?
This really and truly happened. The following story is not exaggerated. I saw it with mine own eyes, today.
Being the struggling musician and all means occasionally taking up work in the most unlikely places. So, there I am selling ladies' fashion in a posh department store which I guess should remain nameless. You can stop laughing now - that's just background information and not part of the story.
I hear a certain mayhem behind one of the pillars near my counter, so I pop round to have a squiz. There, stretched out across the marble floor for what seemed like Red-Sea-type proportions was an ENORMOUS puddle of pink vomit. [If you're squeamish, skip to the next paragraph NOW.] It was a "hit and run" incident because the culprit was nowhere to be seen - just a crowd gathered around said puddle in some amazement. I have to emphasize how BIG this puddle was. It was no ordinary chuck. AND IT WAS PINK!!
One of my workmates, who will be referred to as "Windy" here to protect the innocent, started to go a tad hysterical. She's the proverbial "see a mouse and jump up on a chair squealing and rustle your skirts" type. The rest of us decided we'd try to maintain decorum and continue serving customers without letting on that Daughter of Blob was loose.
A cleaner (poor sod) was called, and just as we were murmuring that they'd better come quick or some old lady was likely to slip and fall in it, the archetypal little old lady shuffled along and - distracted by the big "30% OFF!" discount sign, slipped right into the offending (and offensive) substance. She lay in it on her back, arms and legs flailing about trying to get up. The more she struggled, the more she managed to coat herself in pink matter.
So now Windy goes off her head with excitement, screaming "oh no! She's rolling in someone else's vomit!". Not a good way to keep the customers calm. By this time the cleaner has erected barricades around the "site". I go back to doing my job (which doesn't include contemplating pink puddles) until I realise that no-one is actually paying any attention to the poor victim. She is, by this time, standing slightly apart from the pool COVERED in the stuff. It's on her hair, her clothes, her hands and feet and her handbag. So I put on my most sypmathetic voice and try to make sure she's ok. I show her to a seat, get her some water and try to clean some of the stuff off her with the tissue paper we use to wrap delicate garments. The poor dear was a lot less accusing than I would have been in her position. I think she was just embarassed not to have been paying attention.
Eventually the First Aid officer (poor sod) arrived. I could hear him radio-ing for assistance:
"could you bring me up a bucket of warm water and maybe a cloth or a sponge? CKKKX"
"a bucket?" CKKKX"
"well it doesn't have to be a bucket - it can be a bowl. CKKKX"
"you want a bowl of water? What do you need it for? CKKKX"
"look just bring it, please hurry. CKKKX"
I have to vacate the scene for the restroom as I am feeling rather queasy myself. When I returned all signs of barf and victim had been cleared and life, as they say, continued on as normal. My workmates were rather appalled that I had got involved in the whole business, especially as the soiled tissue paper was now in the bin under our noses.
So if you think you had a bad day today, ask yourself "did I roll around in someone else's pink vomit?"
Chris' enjoyment of her new job at David Jones takes a sudden turn.
(artwork by the brilliant Chantal Vitalis.)
Being the struggling musician and all means occasionally taking up work in the most unlikely places. So, there I am selling ladies' fashion in a posh department store which I guess should remain nameless. You can stop laughing now - that's just background information and not part of the story.
I hear a certain mayhem behind one of the pillars near my counter, so I pop round to have a squiz. There, stretched out across the marble floor for what seemed like Red-Sea-type proportions was an ENORMOUS puddle of pink vomit. [If you're squeamish, skip to the next paragraph NOW.] It was a "hit and run" incident because the culprit was nowhere to be seen - just a crowd gathered around said puddle in some amazement. I have to emphasize how BIG this puddle was. It was no ordinary chuck. AND IT WAS PINK!!
One of my workmates, who will be referred to as "Windy" here to protect the innocent, started to go a tad hysterical. She's the proverbial "see a mouse and jump up on a chair squealing and rustle your skirts" type. The rest of us decided we'd try to maintain decorum and continue serving customers without letting on that Daughter of Blob was loose.
A cleaner (poor sod) was called, and just as we were murmuring that they'd better come quick or some old lady was likely to slip and fall in it, the archetypal little old lady shuffled along and - distracted by the big "30% OFF!" discount sign, slipped right into the offending (and offensive) substance. She lay in it on her back, arms and legs flailing about trying to get up. The more she struggled, the more she managed to coat herself in pink matter.
So now Windy goes off her head with excitement, screaming "oh no! She's rolling in someone else's vomit!". Not a good way to keep the customers calm. By this time the cleaner has erected barricades around the "site". I go back to doing my job (which doesn't include contemplating pink puddles) until I realise that no-one is actually paying any attention to the poor victim. She is, by this time, standing slightly apart from the pool COVERED in the stuff. It's on her hair, her clothes, her hands and feet and her handbag. So I put on my most sypmathetic voice and try to make sure she's ok. I show her to a seat, get her some water and try to clean some of the stuff off her with the tissue paper we use to wrap delicate garments. The poor dear was a lot less accusing than I would have been in her position. I think she was just embarassed not to have been paying attention.
Eventually the First Aid officer (poor sod) arrived. I could hear him radio-ing for assistance:
"could you bring me up a bucket of warm water and maybe a cloth or a sponge? CKKKX"
"a bucket?" CKKKX"
"well it doesn't have to be a bucket - it can be a bowl. CKKKX"
"you want a bowl of water? What do you need it for? CKKKX"
"look just bring it, please hurry. CKKKX"
I have to vacate the scene for the restroom as I am feeling rather queasy myself. When I returned all signs of barf and victim had been cleared and life, as they say, continued on as normal. My workmates were rather appalled that I had got involved in the whole business, especially as the soiled tissue paper was now in the bin under our noses.
So if you think you had a bad day today, ask yourself "did I roll around in someone else's pink vomit?"
Chris' enjoyment of her new job at David Jones takes a sudden turn.
(artwork by the brilliant Chantal Vitalis.)
1 Comments:
People go to extraordinary lengths to be original, I say. Down here in Revesby the colour of vomit is standard green. You drink, you throw up, and there are you night's spent takings on there floor staring up at you - and you feel like the night has not gone to a total waste. But the vomit always, invariably, happens to be green. It's an accepted norm, like VB and knocking letter-boxes on a Friday night for fun. Pushing the boudaries of vomit hue is just not on. If someone had the temerity to throw up pink matter on the floor, no matter how many heads they have pummelled that night, someone else is most likely to come over, inspect it, and then decide to beat the s**t out of you in response. While you're drunk. Slipping in the offendingly pink vomit, trying desperately to get up to give yourself a fighting chance against the rotten guy is not important. It doesn't matter. You might as well call the whole night ruined.
Andrea
Post a Comment
<< Home