Shop Girl Pack Up!

In 12 days I’m leaving the country.
This means 12 days to worry about what I’ve got to do before I go
There must be something I have to do because I’m going away for ages.
I’m talking months-worth of knickers to pack, contact lenses to order, certificates to certify if I can find them....
I’m off to America and then to Colombia to:
a) meet my future in-laws
b) work on my new book
c) spend more than a weekend with the Fiancé
My plane ticket is booked and I have a passport.
What more do I need?
When I worry, I get very sleepy.
So sleepy I can’t even keep my eyes open to write a list of things I have to do.
Instead of writing a list and dealing with each point, I worry until I fall asleep.
A part of me quite fancies sleeping through to Day 12, then waking up to find my suitcase miraculously packed.
If you’ve read my book you’ll know my views on packing.
If you haven’t then I’ll tell you it’s at the top of my Dislikes list (but don’t let this free info put you off buying it).
Luckily the Fiancé is going to supervise.
If it was left to me I’d leave it until the last minute and then I’d fill my suitcase with tights.
That’s what I did when we went to Greece. I packed black tights and nothing to wear with them.
When I’m not worried I’m very excited.
This is an important trip.
I’m finally going to discover where the Fiancé comes from.
I’m going to meet the whole family.
Two years together and I haven’t met a single member!
His mum has planned some outings for just the two of us and I can’t wait to finally talk to her in person.
I’m also hoping to spend time with his Grandma and get her to teach me to cook some Colombian dishes.
Just writing this down has transformed my worry into excitement again.
I’ve finally woken up!
I could write a list now.
I might even put the washing on in preparation.
If I carry on thinking about it, I could get so excited that I start looking for a suitcase.
But let’s not get carried away.
I’m not packing.
Oh no.
There’s 12 days to go until I need to do that.

Volcano Strikes Back

-->I’m going to visit my brother in Barcelona.

I haven’t seen him since Christmas.

It’s the last time I’m going to see him before heading off to Colombia for a few months to meet my future in-laws. What a blog that’ll be!

I’m also off to write a novel.

But before all that, it’s really important I see my brother.

I can’t go away unless I see him.

I pack my suitcase, leave work early and get the train at London Bridge station.

My phone rings before the train doors shut.

“It’s cancelled,” Mum says.

The Volcano has struck again.

I’m in tears. The three day window of opportunity I had to see my brother is closing.

I transfer my flight to the following morning and pray the ashy farts will stop (the volcano’s not mine).

Mum drives me to the airport at 4am.

I hate airport procedure and even more at that time in the morning.

No, I won’t be putting my mascara in a little clear plastic bag.

I never do and no one ever says anything when it goes through the X-ray.

I overhear the security staff complaining to each other about a passenger’s response to their questions:

“Do you have paste? ... No, only toothpaste. Do you have gel? .... No, only hair gel.”

I sympathise because I’m an airport know-it-all.

Why is everyone so frantic anyway?

It’s not even 5am and passengers are having cooked breakfasts washed down with pints of beer, as if it was their last supper.

It will be if their cholesterol has anything to do with it.

Usually I shun the queue to the plane until the last minute but this time I join it.

Behind me I listen to a couple getting anxious because they can’t find their seat numbers on their easyjet boarding pass.

Really? I think.

Do people still not know easyjet don’t have seat numbers?

Their panic is contagious and finally I turn around and tell them to stop looking for because there aren’t any.

“Oh,” the woman smiles with relief. “We’ve never flown on easyjet before, have we?”

“Not had that luxury,” her partner adds.

Perhaps they’ve only been on Ryanair. I think you have to bring your own seats with that lot.

Soon they’ll dole out aeroplane kits where you have to make your own plane. You’ll have to pay extra if you use sellotape.

I have a coffee and get chatting to the lady in the seat next to me.

Our friendly chat culminates in an offer of a mint. This is the pinnacle of plane friendship.

I start to feel excited.

It’s miraculous, in a few hours I’ll see my brother.

No volcano can stop me now.

Picture by www.olibenet.com

Shop Girl the Writer (2)

I’m working on a novel.
This is how I do it:
I buy a floppy, A4 notebook with a plasticised cover for £3.25.
This is all the money I have so I don’t buy a new pen.
Instead I find a hotel freebie with a scratchy tip.
I think about the holiday that led me to this pen while I sip my first coffee.
Next I scribble.
I scribble ideas for the plot mixed with acute observations such as: ‘this pen is really rubbish’ and ’I’m hungry’
After a while I tell my Fiancé about my new ideas.
He looks thoughtful then says, ‘Yeah but what if...’
And comes up with something infinitely better.
I feel stupid because I’ve been at it for ages and he’s had five minutes.
On the other hand I’m delighted because the book is starting to take shape.
I’m also pretty smug I made such a good choice and said ‘yes’ to this man with all the good ideas.
‘It should be your name on the front cover,’ I say.
Eventually I begin the first few chapters.
I write in third person, trying out a new style.
It’s slow-going. There are so many temptations like twitter and toast.
I eat a lot of toast.
Finally I take the new chapters to my writers’ group.
There are mixed feelings about the style.
‘What’s the readership?’
‘It’s not supposed to be a kid’s book if that’s what you mean.’
‘Ah.’
Damn, they think it sounds like a kids’ book.
My two main characters are only 8 years old at the start of the book and the narrator comes across equally young.
‘Perhaps you should write it in the first person,’ someone else says.
To stop or to continue?
Is it too early to share my novel when so much is still undecided?
I read over the chapters in bed and decide it won’t hurt to give it a go in first person.
‘You know your readers are expecting a Shop Girl 2 sort of book,’ a friend says.
Well, here goes:
I’m not writing a Shop Girl 2 sort of book.
....
Are you still there?
I could put a shop somewhere in my story if that helps?
I mean my characters will have to buy something at some point.
Hello.... hello...?

Special: Shop Girl Competition

WIN A SIGNED COPY OF SHOP GIRL DIARIES –
There are 5 to give away!

Whether you were the Customer, Sales Assistant or (not so) innocent Bystander – I would love to hear your funny or most unusual shop story! As short as you like but no longer than blog size (400 words):

e-mail your stories to emily@emilybenet.com

by Thursday 27^th May

The best five will be published on my blog and win a signed copy of Shop Girl Diaries. Everyone who enters will receive a discount code for books at Salt Publishing.com.

JUDGES: Shop Girl’s Mum – my favourite, most discerning, no-nonsense editor (with a huge sense of humour) and myself, Emily Benet aka Shop Girl.

Shop Girl, the Egg, the Candlestick and the Basket

-->

I can’t sleep.

It’s the effect of winning the Author Blog Award.

I’m too excited and I want to DO stuff.

I want to plot my novel.

I’ve got an idea now I just need a dollop of time.

I thought about writing it in the shop.

I'll start as soon as the two women stop dithering over the brass miniatures, I thought.

It’s three for a pound and I’ve written the offer on a giant label.

For some reason people take longer deciding over these ornaments than over a five hundred pound crystal chandelier.

“A pound for one?” one of them asked.

“No, a pound for three pieces.”

“Which three?”

“Any three.”

Uncertain what to do with the brass eggs they tried balancing them on top of the mini candlestick.

“What about this?” one said, holding up a brass basket.

“Yes, you can have three of those, or mix them up.”

“How much is it?”

“Three for a pound.”

This is more than a £1.00 of my time, I thought. Then realised it probably wasn’t.

Apart from writing my novel, I also want to learn stuff about applications and widgets and embedding.

I’m suddenly bored of saying I’m not technical.

Why can’t I be technical?

I’m the sort of girl that gets excited about a good pair of wire strippers. Surely I can learn this computer stuff.

Furthermore, I’m determined to understand twitter. I wasn’t bothered about it until my blog got short-listed and I suddenly realised the time had come to embrace it.

So far I write a tweet and think what a stupid tweet that was.

Then I wish I could delete the tweet.

But to delete it you have to write a new tweet.

So I do.

Then I think what a stupid tweet that was.

So I tweet again.

Oh look, I have one less follower.

The mistake is to care so much.

It's just the excitement of having my blog noticed by so many people.

I’ll calm down soon enough.

I might even get offline for five minutes and scribble the plot for this new novel on good old pen and paper.

I’ll start when the next lot of women are finished choosing their ornaments.

They’ll be stuck between the egg, the candlestick and the basket.

They won’t realise they can have all three for a pound.

It’s so silly I might even tweet about it.

And the Winner is...

Shop Girl and The Cloud of Unknowing

The ashy plume of the naughty Icelandic volcano has affected half the shop's staff.
Mum is grounded in Spain.
Being a good daughter I would gladly make the awful sacrifice and swap places with her.
But since that’s not possible I’m stuck in the shop.
On Saturday this is particularly painful because the sun is shining.
I worry that this is the one day of British summer and I’m going to miss it.
As I look longingly towards the door, a man approaches carrying his daughter on his shoulders.
I expect him to get her down but either he has no sense of measure like me or he’s forgotten she’s up there because he walks right in.
Bang goes her head against the door frame.
“SH*T!” I say.
Part of me wants to laugh out loud.
The man gives me a dirty look as he gets her down and she rubs her head looking dazed.
“I’m fine daddy,” she says, walking in circles.
I think he’s more concerned by my swearing than the fact he’s concussed his daughter.
He doesn’t stay long.
A woman charges in after that. She wants a disposable camera.
I make a point of looking around at the chandeliers before telling her we don’t sell them.
“Damn!” she says, and I’m surprised she held so much hope.
Perhaps we should sell them. Good weather is bad for lighting sales.
Who switches on their lights when it’s sunny?
As usual, people pop in to ask about our epic Closing sale.
“Closing?” a man observes. “Can I have something for charity?”
He’s well-dressed and has neither a badge nor a clip board.
He just wants free stuff.
“Not really,” I say.
“I thought this was a nice shop,” he says.
“I can’t just give you stuff. It doesn’t work like that.”
“But you’re closing down.”
“I still need to eat.”
He looks disappointed but manages to muster a blessing before he leaves.
I’d have preferred a tea.
To tell you the truth, a part of me is curious to see how far this volcano can change our lives.
On the other hand, much longer of being alone and I’ll start talking to the chandeliers.