Am I being served?

The topic of today's blog entry, is indeed my career, work, and ability (or lack of) to be a good salesperson. It all started in a village pub when I was thirteen years old. Driven by the sheer frustration of watching my family struggle financially, I decided it was about time I pitched in. I waddled off down the village to the Carpenter's Arms to have a go at getting myself employed. Obviously I wasn't going to pay the mortgage but I figured if I could by my own stuff it would take some pressure off my parents.

It was surprisingly easy to obtain my first ever paid position at the pub, realising now of course that I was the only girl in the village and as such would be a novelty for customers who had so far, been served their steak and chips by boys who looked like they were making their own mayo in little volcanoes on their faces for the last three years.

I started my little pub job and initially the work was daunting, but because I knew most of the villagers who frequented the Carpenter's, it wasn't as bad as it could have been. After a few Saturday nights I'd pretty much got the measure of the job. The thing I liked most was that I didn't have to sell anything. My job was based on 'would you like', 'would you like a dessert, would you like to see the wine list'? I could do that, if a customer said no, I couldn't then go on to say 'are you sure, I don't care if you are full, eat this bloody Viennetta or we won't hit our targets and then then Landlord and his family will miss out on his fortnight all inclusive in Lanzarote and I will get the sack'. People told you what they wanted, you didn't tell them what they wanted.

I stayed at the Carpenter's until I was sixteen, throughout my school days, but I wanted to move on when I got to college. Somehow keeping the job I'd had since thirteen was just not convenient any more. I needed a job in town, to help finance my education but that I didn't have to drive to. A job with a better wage. I looked in the window of the Job Centre and there was a position as a Shoe Fitter available in the Co-op department store. I went for an interview and got the job. The wages seemed huge to me after my terribly paid pub job, and I have to say, the work was not as hard. That's not to say it wasn't hard work, but it wasn't in a hot, greasy, smoky pub. I felt I was the height of sophistication!

I had a uniform, a horrendous spotty navy blouse with a long navy pleated skirt. We had to wear a pair of shoes from the shop, which we had to buy, but at staff discount. I was trained by Hush Puppies, Start-Rite and Clarks to measure and correctly fit shoes, on children and adults. No amount of training however can prepare you for a pensioner's post-grocery shop bunions, or a toddler with a full nappy which is just at the same height as your nose.

Three of the other ladies were middle aged, and a lot of fun. There was camaraderie. As ever though, there was a fly in the ointment. This particular fly went by the name of Helen. Helen was my age, but clearly resented the fact that I was at university and had a bigger plan. She however, was going to be a shoe fitter for life. Now I have never been one for job snobbery, I think if you want to be a shoe fitter all your life and it makes you happy, then bloody good on you. But she was clearly trying to second guess me and had given herself a massive inferiority complex, which then grew into a superiority complex.

Anyway, in the midst of all these complexes (complexii?) she had one skill that I did not. She could sell extras. She could make single mother's and old aged pensioners buy all the polish or suede care or insoles that I didn't want to push on them, because they'd already saved up their money for some decent shoes in the first place. She ruthlessly hit her extras target like a woman possessed. Not one of her customers left without these goods added onto their bill, and why? Because she made them feel too awkward to say no. I hated this. I still hate this.

When people try to sell me extras, an extended warranty for example, I ask them if they'd like me to leave without buying anything at all, and if they would, then they should continue with their patter. Otherwise, they should just take my money, give me my goods and let me be on my way.

As life unfolded for me, I ended up full time as a graphic designer. My chosen path. The subject of my degree. You'd think I'd be happy. No. There is nothing more soul destroying than coming up with beautiful creative ideas, when their only purpose is to make the rich richer. I loath it. And unless you work for free, it's all you can do in graphic design. I decided to change career path whilst I was still young enough (cough).

A position as a teacher in a further education college came up. I'd always fancied teaching, the chance to make a difference to someone's life appealed to me. The trouble though was that I was teaching graphics, a subject that I no longer had faith in. How could I give others passion for something I no longer felt a passion for? I managed to teach for two years and it was the most exhausting two years of my life. I would never make it as a teacher, because I'm honest about life, and colleges don't want you to be honest. If a student wants to leave, let them, what's the point if they don't want to learn? The trouble is, the student is worth money to the college, therefore you have to make every effort to persuade them to stay, even though they really don't want it. That can't be right surely?

I don't regret my years as a teacher. I found that despite the subject being a little empty for me, I actually formed some great friendships and instilled enough confidence into some of the least confident young people I'd ever met.

In between all this I thought if I couldn't get the subject right, I'd try working at a beautiful place instead. So, I chose Doddington Hall in Lincolnshire. It was not short of beauty, and I would end up getting married there. I still love the place. Again though, all emphasis was on money and how to make more of it. To make the wealthy wealthier. For a crap salary I was expected to work very hard to put more money in the pockets of people who had so much already. This didn't really sit well, although the owners of the hall are actually lovely people, they are business people, and I am not.

I'm not remotely business minded. I'm soft, pliable, sympathetic and considerate. I wanted to make a difference, I wanted to have a job I was proud of. I count myself extremely lucky because I have found that job. I saw an ad in the local paper, for a digital imaging expert, for the police. My degree and my previous experience as a teacher meant that I ticked all the essential, and some of the desirable elements of the job description, so I went for it. I never dreamt I would get it, but I did!

Now, I spend my days helping people. Perhaps an elderly lady who has been burgled, I can make her feel safer. A teenager who has had their bike stolen, people who have suffered terrible and more serious crimes are all made safer by the work I and my colleagues do every day. We go the extra mile, we stay the extra few hours, because we are genuine people, who just want to help others. No selling, no extras, no pushy pitch.

The conclusion to my ramblings I suppose is that some people are born to sell, and others are honest! My salary is reasonable, not massive, but I consider myself rich in other ways, ways that are more important to me by far. I haven't dreaded a Monday morning since being in this job and I will remain doing it for as long as I am able. I'm one of the lucky ones who love what they do.

Calories? I never was good with maths.

For some time now I have been considering a blog about food and eating, since they are subjects that I am experienced in. I've been hesitant, mainly because those of you who know me, are most likely fed up of me banging on about it already. Reflecting on this I decided to go ahead, based on the fact that if you don't want to read about it, you can vote with your feet.

Let's begin with my early relationship with food. My mother was a woman who loved you with food. She would cheer you up with an extra dollop of lovely mashed potato or give you a hug with some home made chips and a fried egg. We didn't really do physical hugging, so this was our way of doing it. Our Sunday lunch would take the form of a small mountaineering expedition, roasts potatoes, mashed potatoes, three veg, half a cow and a Yorkshire pudding teetering on the top like a brown crispy base camp. The largest conceivable dinner plates were too heavy to lift with one hand once loaded with one of these bad boys. If you moved anything on the plate even slightly, a sea of gravy would slip over the edge. I have to confess, that I do the same thing myself sometimes, my husband complains there is too much, but strangely manages to eat everything on his plate!

Waste was not permitted when I was a child, and I still detest it, as there has never been money to burn in my wallet. Cleaning your plate was also the only way to get to an apple crumble and custard dessert, and as such, everything put in front of me, I ate. In truth, given this fact, it's a minor miracle that I'm not the size of a castle, never mind the small semi, with conservatory and garage extension, that I've now become.

My family were not wealthy, we had hand me down clothes and a rusty car, but food was the one thing Mum could give us in large quantities, relatively cheaply. She would not economise with meat. Our regular butcher must have rubbed his hands with glee when we turned up once a week and spent a small fortune on the best meat he had. I'm guessing we paid for several of his new cars and the odd holiday.

As I grew older, fourteen or so, I would prepare my own food. With the advent of the microwave oven, leftover cold mash, became cheesy mash in no time at all. McCain microchips were being consumed at a vast rate and as for crispy pancakes, well, just call me Findus. I was old enough to eat all the stuff my mother had previously banned! I grew up helping mum and both grandmothers to make cakes, pies and bread, my grandparents also loved me with food! I got so much of this love that I ended up rather overweight.

There really is something to be said for cooking and the joy that it brings me, and thousands of others. The smell of baking bread is something that authors describe in novels, always to give the impression of homeliness, cosiness and security. Estate agents even tell us that the smell of baking bread and fresh coffee help to sell a house, making it more welcoming. This had to come from somewhere right? To me, a good meal means that you are being looked after, you are safe and cared for. It runs so much deeper than just the eating.

In the evenings, when you really don't need to eat anything else, there's the TV problem to deal with. I swear to God that you could be as full as Mr Creasote, (post mint, pre vomit), yet still, an episode of Masterchef can have you convinced you have eaten nothing for a week and if you don't get a pistachio macaron in the next five minutes you might actually die. The Great British Bake Off is even worse! I only need to see Paul Hollywood now and I get cravings for a profiterole mountain and half a dozen marshmallow teacakes (don't even get me started on the other things I crave when I see that man)!

The thing that is weird though, is how food can give us all of these feelings, positive, cared for, feelings, but then bring so much guilt and misery to so many people. Like most things in life, it's about balance. My balance is wrong. If I get down in the dumps I cheer myself up with food. If I feel really happy for some reason, I celebrate with food, thinking, 'sod it, you only live once'. When you are overweight though it's a very viscous circle, and with a mindset like mine, it's a really tough battle.

One time I lost weight. Quite a lot of weight. I was almost a size ten. How did this happen? Husband number one cheated on me with a tall skinny blonde. She was supposed to be my best friend. In a way I suppose she was, she after all, made me sit on my sofa for a fortnight not eating anything and losing my body weight in tears for the whole duration. She also made me convinced that if I were thinner like her (she turned out to have an eating disorder, the irony) my husband would once again love me. This also proved to be untrue, but I did it anyway. All that happened was I got a lot of interest from a lot of men, several married ones, that hadn't wanted to know me when I was chubby. I can't say that this did anything to improve my mistrust in men.

I find myself sometimes thinking, that if mine were an addiction to alcohol, I would be able to find help? I think people must think that I'm greedy, have no self control, the same things that make drug addicts take drugs, I do with food. I suppose there are self help groups, those fat clubs that make you eat dust and then suffer the humiliation of a public weigh in. I just can't subscribe to all the overly cheerful and very American feeling that it all has. I'd rather sit in an under stairs cupboard secretly binge eating crisps (I once did that until my mouth bled, seriously, I need help) than sit in a village hall, patting strangers on the back because they managed to take a massive shit before the meeting and hence lose three pounds.

I'd love to say that writing this particular blog has in some way made me feel better or had some positive conclusion. Sometimes I wonder if it's just in your genes, and there is some science behind this theory. I may be genetically disposed to eating too much, or having a slow metabolism. I may even have a thyroid problem, but all of those things sound like poor excuses. Boredom is my biggest problem, coupled with a love of food. We can all lose weight if we want to, but I don't want to eat fibre bars made of shrapnel or spend two days of the week eating nothing. It would make me miserable, and when I'm miserable...... I EAT!!