Yesterday I discovered that Inna, one of my colleagues at the 'Field, has left. I cannot explain in words the veritable truck of despair which smashed into me and left me as roadkill upon the cracked tarmac of reality upon seeing her name on the Holiday Calendar rubbed out. She hadn't been at work in rather a long time but I, in my infinite ignorance, assumed she was merely on holiday. Not so.
As the tears stream down my face and threaten to cause irreparable damage to my keyboard, I cannot help but reminisce about how wonderful she was.
For those of you who are blind and stupid and also deaf, I can inform you now that I work in the Delicatessen of Somerfield, Crieff. The vilest place in the world by far, it has slowly been sucking my soul out for nearly two years. Each chicken sold is in exchange for a fraction of what it is that makes me me. Each single slice of turkey (the most loathsome of orders) is like a paper cut to the tongue of my youth and optimism, which are in staggeringly short supply anyway. There are few things which can alleviate this enormous spiritual burden, but it can be safely said (provided high visibility jackets and hard-hats are worn during the saying of it) that Inna's assumed aura of mutual boredom and general fed-up-ness was one of them. She was like the older woman in films and what-not who mentors and looks out for the naive young man. The street-wise, jive-talkin' ghetto dweller who takes under her wing the lost and lonely boy fallen on hard times. There was a genuine sense of camaraderie between us. A real feeling of "we're in this hell-hole together". We were both slightly disadvantaged, she because of her nationality and language and me...because I'm quiet, polite but ultimately useless. Her ever-dependable friendship was something I found most welcome in contrast to the bi-polar treatment one receives from management, who are your friends if you can do their extra shifts but who ignore you otherwise. Perhaps this environment served to enhance my image of her as one of the sweetest people in the world.
Quite possibly the most wonderful person I have ever met while working at Somerfield, she could speak only very broken English when she first arrived. It warmed me to my grievously wounded soul to watch her improve with the rapidity of a young child. Whereas before my comments were met with a polite nod of understanding (the case with many people who have spoken English for years), before she left we could have quite pleasant and understandable conversations. She was immensely funny as well, a trait which I have always been worried was lost when donning the mantle of a foreign language. Surely it is impossible to retain your own characteristic sparkle and panache when speaking French. Would a Spaniard in a bar really get a truthful portrayal of you as a personality if you were both speaking Spanish? Apparently it is possible. Very possible.
So I was always delighted to arrive for my shift to find Inna stacking milk. With a cheeky wink or a genuinely happy wave (something of a rarity in these darkly unsociable days) Inna could successfully lay a carpet of elation for me to bounce clumsily upon for at least the first ten minutes of working.
Before I knew her name I would, as Alice Jones will attest if she remembers, refer to Inna as "pretty Polish girl". Of course, a more appropriate term of endearment would have had to be "pretty Polish woman", although I'm sure Inna would not be in the least bit upset that I referred to her as a girl.
So there you have it. What you have just read is a rather awful and inadequate testament to the wonderfulness of my colleague, Inna. If Somerfield construed some form of microcosm (a term I learned in Advanced Higher English) for an ordinary person's life then along with Kevin, the goofy friend, Liam, the almost endearingly Glaswegian, despotic manager, Nan, the grandmother figure and Daniel, the ever-dependable shelf-jockey companion, Inna would have to have been the object of my adolescent romantic desire.
And I can't think of a lovelier woman for the job.
As the tears stream down my face and threaten to cause irreparable damage to my keyboard, I cannot help but reminisce about how wonderful she was.
For those of you who are blind and stupid and also deaf, I can inform you now that I work in the Delicatessen of Somerfield, Crieff. The vilest place in the world by far, it has slowly been sucking my soul out for nearly two years. Each chicken sold is in exchange for a fraction of what it is that makes me me. Each single slice of turkey (the most loathsome of orders) is like a paper cut to the tongue of my youth and optimism, which are in staggeringly short supply anyway. There are few things which can alleviate this enormous spiritual burden, but it can be safely said (provided high visibility jackets and hard-hats are worn during the saying of it) that Inna's assumed aura of mutual boredom and general fed-up-ness was one of them. She was like the older woman in films and what-not who mentors and looks out for the naive young man. The street-wise, jive-talkin' ghetto dweller who takes under her wing the lost and lonely boy fallen on hard times. There was a genuine sense of camaraderie between us. A real feeling of "we're in this hell-hole together". We were both slightly disadvantaged, she because of her nationality and language and me...because I'm quiet, polite but ultimately useless. Her ever-dependable friendship was something I found most welcome in contrast to the bi-polar treatment one receives from management, who are your friends if you can do their extra shifts but who ignore you otherwise. Perhaps this environment served to enhance my image of her as one of the sweetest people in the world.
Quite possibly the most wonderful person I have ever met while working at Somerfield, she could speak only very broken English when she first arrived. It warmed me to my grievously wounded soul to watch her improve with the rapidity of a young child. Whereas before my comments were met with a polite nod of understanding (the case with many people who have spoken English for years), before she left we could have quite pleasant and understandable conversations. She was immensely funny as well, a trait which I have always been worried was lost when donning the mantle of a foreign language. Surely it is impossible to retain your own characteristic sparkle and panache when speaking French. Would a Spaniard in a bar really get a truthful portrayal of you as a personality if you were both speaking Spanish? Apparently it is possible. Very possible.
So I was always delighted to arrive for my shift to find Inna stacking milk. With a cheeky wink or a genuinely happy wave (something of a rarity in these darkly unsociable days) Inna could successfully lay a carpet of elation for me to bounce clumsily upon for at least the first ten minutes of working.
Before I knew her name I would, as Alice Jones will attest if she remembers, refer to Inna as "pretty Polish girl". Of course, a more appropriate term of endearment would have had to be "pretty Polish woman", although I'm sure Inna would not be in the least bit upset that I referred to her as a girl.
So there you have it. What you have just read is a rather awful and inadequate testament to the wonderfulness of my colleague, Inna. If Somerfield construed some form of microcosm (a term I learned in Advanced Higher English) for an ordinary person's life then along with Kevin, the goofy friend, Liam, the almost endearingly Glaswegian, despotic manager, Nan, the grandmother figure and Daniel, the ever-dependable shelf-jockey companion, Inna would have to have been the object of my adolescent romantic desire.
And I can't think of a lovelier woman for the job.
