Check Your Smile (Words Fail Me)

Yesterday, standing in the queue at KFC, I noticed a poster. It was at head height, tacked to the tiles on the staff side of the counter, next to hot cabinet that houses the chicken. Just an A4 landscape size, not overly brash, laminated for wipe-cleanable hygiene. Check Your Smile, it read, and underneath it had five passport sized photos of a man. Three had a red cross beside them, two, a green tick. Sinister-seeming. The Man can buy your time at minimum wage, and for that, gets not only your expertise at fried chicken wrangling, but also the outer expression of your innermost feelings. I wondered if someone paid just above minimum wage is required to go about with a clipboard measuring the smiles of the employees, and if someone might be fired for a smile related offence. ‘Your smile registered at only level three (neutral) on the smile expectations quotient, this is not good enough, you need to register at least level four (delight) if not level five (gurning grin of ecstasy). You’re ambivalent, YOU‘RE FIRED.’
At least KFC are overt in their attempts to dehumanise. I was recently told a story where an office worker had on his desk a picture of his new baby. His boss came by and having congratulated him on the birth, admonished him about the picture. It contravened the empty desk policy.

We all work too much with machines, and begin to forget that we are people. Logic and a teaspoon of empathy should tell us that a family picture on a desk won’t adversely affect productivity, and that teenager smiling because they hare happy in their work may sell an extra Pepsi, while a teeth bared grimace purporting to be a smile won’t. May The Man forgive all of us drones out humanity.

In only vaguely related news, I heard a song on the radio, and it has stuck in my head. It’s by Chris T-T, and artist I should have been aware of because he’s in the Billy Bragg style (though I suspect he wouldn’t like that said so I‘ll be buying his CD to make up for it). Words Fail Me. That’s also the song title. I can’t find a good link to it. I’ve been listening through Spotify. It is on an album available through Amazon amongst other places.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Love-Not-Rescue-Chris-T-T/dp/B0037Z8VTW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1276181943&sr=8-1

Wednesday 14.5.09

Today was one of those rare days that goes just so perfectly. It is impossible to communicate perfection, and in writing, any attempt comes across as a bit tedious. All the best stories are tragedies (with a happy ending sometimes),and the devil has the best tunes. I'm going to have a try though because a day like today is rare and precious so that will have to be the tragic part. Unless....

It wasn't a perfect start. Nan didn't have much food in, so I stopped on the A30 at Blackwater to get 11am ,breakfast at a coffee place. One of those American chains, I don't recall which one. I rarely go into these places, but I notice that they are popular. What is it that people like about them? Is it the dark wood furniture, the brusque service, maybe the wooden stirrers, the grubby flasks of milk? I don't drink coffee so I had a hot chocolate with whipped cream on top and a breakfast panini. Nearly £6 bought me a tough bit of bread, a gold leaf portion of bacon, a mouthful of tinned mushroom all at one end of the bread, and some additional but unidentifiable filling. Warm, but not warm enough to be a hot tasty treat, more a kind of punishment for being hungry.

Darcy and I were on our way to Liskeard to see S, a friend from pre puberty to post virginity, rediscovered thanks to Facebook. We ground up the dual carriageway for an hour, then a bit more thought the wooded stretch of the A38, past the queue for Trago Mills, one of the key shopping experiences of my youth. I had in my mind that if it went badly, I could make the excuse that I needed to get back to Nan's, S could say she needed to fetch her children. I also got a bit of confidence that after 20 years of no contact there wasn't anything to loose. In fact, a lot of confidence came from feeling that our Facebook contact had gone well. Liskeard isn't a town I know well, its a place people drive past on the way to Plymouth, non-touristy Cornwall, a local place for local people. The shops are unreconstructed market town, could be quaint, but aren't as most are looking a little neglected. Lots of small businesses that look like they're struggling to hang on. The hair of the people was lank in the drizzle.

Seeing S was meant to go well. I was bang on time in spite of not knowing how long it would take to find her place. She seemed entirely unchanged, just as I had remembered her. I got, and hope that she got, the instant comfort of being with a friend, known and easy. I am shallow enough to be glad when someone drinks tea, perhaps that was the key icebreaker if one were needed. I was fun to see the habits and hobbies that she held on to (cigarettes, the flute, cooking), and the self that she has kept (slim ankles, her manner of speaking, thinking three things at once) and to watch as small changes occurred to me. Her voice seemed a little deeper, she was softer about people, no longer hooked on makeup and big hair. Her kids are fabulous, all such individuals. I had met only her eldest, when he was a baby. He turns 21 this weekend, her other son 18. Her little ones did like the little pink gifts. I got the best gift of all, coffee walnut cake, just like her mum used to make, and I used to eat, at her house after school. Best cake I ever tasted.

We had the best time, chatting and remembering, took the kids to the park, got Chinese food, did the kids homework. She played flute while her children sang, such fun, such a gift. I stayed for hours, lost track of time, didn't leave 'till 9. Grinned all the way home.