We’ve all had them, those days we would rather forget. So just to make you feel better I’ll share one such a day I had with you.
I work a couple of half days a week in a local shop. On this particular day last week I arrived in as usual, and began to open up. I plugged everything in, turned the lights on, and waited as the computer and receipt printer hummed into action. The till however remained silent. Blank.
“No panic”, I thought, as I checked out the plug, and the different leads, “something is probably loose”. Having wiggled everything in a most professional manner, I deduced that nothing was in fact loose.
Next I went to check out the plug. There were a very large number of plugs attached to a couple of extension leads, but by calmly figuring out which plug was which, (and after five minutes discovering the til was the only grey one!) I unplugged it and checked it elsewhere. This proved that, yes, the plug was indeed working.
So I then accepted the til was broken. Now what?
I rang Mr Boss, who suggested that there may be a number on the til of someone who could help me. Disgusted I had not thought of that myself, I scanned the til and there I saw it, an enormous sticker with the name and number for the til suppliers. Taking advantage of the fact Mr Boss couldn’t see me, I told him I’d keep looking and would surely find the name somewhere, and promptly hung up.
I rang the suppliers and the man on the line sounded very pleasant. He never asked was the plug in nor did I detect any male superior attitude. After a lot of questions I was told that it sounded like the fuse was gone. Unluckily he told me that his team were working in West Cork, over sixty miles away, and were unable to come to fix it until the evening, but he assured me he would send them as soon as possible. Until then he suggested I open the til door, using a release button. and work with a pen and paper.
I thanked him, hung up, and stared at the till. A thought crossed my mind, that this is how it was in the good old days. Then I panicked and hurriedly went in search of a calculator.
Over all it was all a bit awkward, and time consuming, but manageable. I had to hand write all the receipts and I kept forgetting not to close the til drawer, so the til spent a good bit of the day almost upside down as I went looking for the release button. This also resulted in the cash spilling all over the drawer, and I looking like a complete incompetent. Yet all in all it was not too difficult.
Finally at lunchtime two men arrived in. Seemingly they had left West Cork especially to look after my “issue”, which they said, was more urgent than their other job.
“Well, says one of them, we hear you’re having a small bit of bother with your masheen”, (that’s the way he said it in his strong accent). “I am”, and repeating his earlier diagnosis I said,“You said it might be a fuse”.
“It might be” he said, by God it might be”, as he walked up to the til. “Or in fact it might be shimply a matter of turning it on”. And with that he pressed a button on the side of the til, which was as large as the nose on my face and which said “On”.
His buddy with him burst out laughing.
I looked at them mortified. “Ah for Gods sake, I said, I never saw that poxy button, no one ever turned the til off before”.
“Never mind girl, my man said, we’ll just send you in a fine big bill”. And off they went laughing heartily,
Blush blush. Five days later I still can’t believe it. What an eejit I am.
Now I just have to think how in the hell I am going to tell Mr Boss what was wrong with the til, without it looking as bad as it clearly was.