post retail stress disorder

Disclaimer: The follow blog contains words and sentences that supportive Novacastrians may find distressing. Reader discretion is advised, because I’m as mad as hell and I aint gonna take it anymore.

Mad. I’m damn mad. Damn damn mad.

If it’s one thing I hate it’s people who get in the way of my own personal retail therapy.

In my recent packing I found two gift vouchers for the Myer department store that I still had approximately AUD$55 worth of funds available on them. What a wonderful opportunity I thought it might be to race on down to Charlestown Square to do a bit of shopping before I head overseas. I’m a boot man, and the current pair of Colorados need replacing.

Unfortunately for me I found that the sales assistants at Myer only had a somewhat casual relationship with the concept of customer service. It appeared that I was in fact a mere inconvenient distraction to two of them who thought it necessary to pause, look in my general direction whilst avoiding any form of eye contact, and then continue their enthralling conversation about their need to display ties correctly and their weekend rank fecundity.

One had removed his shop assistant badge that clearly meant he was off duty so a courteous nod in my direction was all that he was prepared to do to spread his special brand of Myer goodwill and cheer. Ahhh.

Another came burdened with what one could only assume was her version of an electronic husband or a faulty cash register. It was so pleasant of her too stop, look at me for a good thirty seconds (the time it took for the vile acts of fecundity to be completed), look at the two speaking of their vile acts of fecundity, then turned back to me in a desperate attempt to wonder if by holding the two sets of display shoes in my hot little hands that I may have actually wanted to try them on for size. Clearly the electronic husband needed a Bex and a good lie down, and off to the store room of ignorance she ran.

So right, I thought, I am off to their competition, David Jones. I now know what it is like to feel like tumbleweed. I wondered if I tried gesticulating wildly if that might attract the attention of the various ladies dressed in black to actually turn in my direction and notice I was there. Maybe the tightly pulled hair in buns was so stretched that craning ones neck to see if there was someone waiting for service would required a chiropractor and several Thai massage therapists in bikinis.

Ahh Newcastle. Gateway to the Hunter. Just don’t let the gate slap you on the bum as you leave, and leave the key under the mat, because I am too busy watching Bold And The Beautiful to give a rat’s arse.

*sigh* I left, empty handed.

p.s. I am a Novacastrian by birth. So, like any good family, I have the right to bitch about it. But just don’t get any funny ideas out there, you foreigners.


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