“You should get a job!” my conscience said.
“But I’m a self-employed slacker.” I replied.
“Ah, but why not get temporary work at an agency for the days when you don’t have any work?” my conscience and another self-employed slacker asked.
And so it was that I traipsed into town and gave my details to Temp. Employment Agency:
“Doctorate, German-speaking, scientist and PR-type, knew how to use various computer programs. Used to working in an office or lab, yada, yada….”
I handed over the forms.
“Would you describe yourself as literate and numerate?” the girl behind the desk asked.
I presume she took my scowl to mean yes, as she struggled to find the Y key on the keyboard.
“Well,” she said, “we don’t have any vacancies for people who can make two-headed, glow-in-the-dark tadpoles at the moment, but we’ll keep your records on file and call if anything suitable comes up.”
Conscience salved, I returned home to do more important work…..
The next morning at 7 a.m. my phone rang…. “Hi, this is Donna from Employment Agency. I’ve got a job that’s just right for you, are you free today.”
“Bleurgh, er, yeah, what time is it?” I replied
“And can you get yourself to Large Producer Of Fine Chemicals plc a.s.a.p.?”
“Of course”
“Great. You’re to meet a Mr. ‘Smith’. Oh, and by the way, do you have a forklift truck operators licence?”
Now normally, someone who had filled in the application forms as I had, might not be expected to have such a licence, but it just so happens that thanks to doing really, really shitty jobs as a student I do have a forklift operators licence. It also happens that thanks to a tiny budget, when we moved labs from one small university town in SW Germany to a large city in SE Germany, we saved money because the group leader and I drove the removal trucks (he got an HGV licence care of Wehrpflicht – I stuck with just 7.5 tonnes). But – and this may come as a huge shock to readers in Germany – bureaucracy there requires one to have an EU-wide Gabelstaplerführerschein and I could transfer my old-school British one to an EU one by merely filling out 17 forms, waiting in line for 5 hours and paying 25 Marks.
Hence, I now have a Gabelstaplerfahrerausweis (Frontgabelstapler) which is valid EU-Wide. And Britain is still, I’m afraid, part of the EU.
I turned up at Large Producer Of Fine Chemicals plc and found ‘Mr. Smith’
“Can you drive a forklift?” he asked “And have you got your licence?”
“Yes!” I answered and handed over my Gabelstaplerführerschein (which is written in German, English & French).
“Oh fuckin’ ‘ell!” he exclaimed.
“Why do they keep sendin’ me you bastard foreigners? Why don’t you just fuck off ‘ome? Go on. Do one. We’ve got enough of you fuckin’ Poles here.”
So, although I’m not exactly sure where “home” is anymore exactly, I guess that’s where I should be heading.
But first I went straight to the Employment Agency – they’d had a complaint from Large Producer Of Fine Chemicals plc that they’d sent a fork lift truck driver who couldn’t speak English.
I do hope the girl had ticked yes on the “literate, yes/no?” form.
German Word For The Day: Gabelstapler : Fork-lift truck
The Brits willful disregard for any language other than their own is well known. The mistake you made was producing a piece of paper. Everyone knows you just say yes and then get on the macine and drive it. Noone here has a forklift drivers licence - as such.
Oh gosh. That’s the kind of thing that just happens to you…
No!!!! Really??? That blatant?? Oh me, oh my!
You should complain to somewhere. But I suppose you’d get laughed at, due to your actual non-foreign-ness.
King Lear: The Brits & language bit is true your highness, but I’m afraid that elf n safety meant that I did have to show “Bob”, the warehouse manager type, my licence. Maybe it’s because it’s a large FTSE100 listed company* as opposed to a small builder or equiv. and they’d been on safety (but not diversity training) courses or something.
Mad Brazilian: Yes, but I thought the language misunderstandings wouldn’t occur in my homeland.
Engelsk: I was dealing with a factory floor guy in a city with lots of BNP councillors, as opposed to an HR-type who might actually have bothered reading the English part of the licence, as opposed to just seeing an umlaut and telling me to fuck off. Surprisingly, since complaining, I’ve not heard from that temp agency again.
The other week this penguin flew (for the first time ever) from East Midlands Airport (dunno why, but I always imagined it being somewhere near Northampton, but it turns out to be somewhere close to that place the motorway signs call “The North”), and *expletive* were there a lot of Polish people on that flight. Next time I fly Paddy’O'Plane Airlines I shall learn the Polish for “dobre denye, is this seat free? I can’t be arsed to fight my way down to the free rows in the middle of the plane, djenguye”.
MP: I flew from Belfast ‘International’ (as in, we begrudgingly do flights south to the Free State, International) to East Midlands once. Is it still a runway and a shed, or is that just arrivals and there’s a shiny new departures lounge with Tłumacz on hand?
The check-in bit was rather shed-like, but in a “this is our new Cheap’O'Jet Terminal” kind of way. The departures bit looked quite new, in a “we might be a provincial airport, but we’re going to make you walk past lots and lots of shops” kind of way.
Reminds me of the time in 1990 when I flew to and from Humberside airport. It’s somewhere near Scunthorpe. It might have grown since then - I have no idea. But it certainly wasn’t a large airport.
And the airport I flew there from - and then back to? Esbjerg, of all places - more commonly known for its ferry port and fishing industry.
There were 14 seats on the plane, and it throbbed constantly in both directions. (The plane, too.) I think I’d accidentally tapped into some secret little plane and little airport alliance, but I’ve since lost their phone number.
I don’t get it. Despite your international document it should have been obvious to your almost-employer that your English. And what about your eloquence, your rethoric skills? Didn’t you even try to convince him otherwise?
Music playing while this was written: Last Night Of The Proms (recorded from an earlier NDR broadcast)
JCS: I think it might have been eloquence and lack of a local dialect that marked me out that I wasn’t from the neighbourhood. I did try a Scouse accent (the only one I can pretend to do, really, even though I’m not from Liverpool), but he wasn’t having it.
Music playing as this was written: ‘Paintball’s Coming Home’ by ‘Half Man, Half Biscuit’
MountPenguin, engelsk: I recommend Stornoway for the ultimate “airport” experience. “Flight delayed due to sheep on ‘runway’ etc.” Genoa’s good too, because it’s RIGHT next to the sea and in the right conditions, upon touch down, all one can see out of the window is waves instead of well, runway and airport-type buildings. Did I put on the lifejacket? Of course not…. but only because I couldn’t find it.
mr fact: eloquence is never to be trusted and good pronounciation makes no friends on the factory floor/construction site… However, I personally consider sheep on the runway a surperior excuse to leaves on the tracks or all trams cancelled because it MIGHT snow within the next 24h.
Music I wish I had while writing this - The Four Seasons by Vivaldi
And I always thought Barra was the ultimate airport experience?
(Google it yourself if you don’t know why
)
RhineBlaze: Also not a good idea - taking a broadsheet newspaper to read during lunch break at a factory job. Also, it’s ‘dinner’ not ‘lunch’. But I worked that out whilst I was doing my A Levels. And if you want to listen to Vivaldi, turn on Classic FM, there’s a 50/50 chance you’ll get him or an ad for varifocal glasses and/or hearing aids.
Armin; I shall add it to my list of things to do. Genoa only gets on because it was an unscheduled stop - one of the turboprop engines stopped working - it was fixed by a guy hitting it a couple of times with a hammer and pouring a can of oil into it. Then we could all get back on board for the trip over the Alps to Munich, although one or two might have refused but my memory is hazy as I’d decided that I was going to take all the complimentary drinks I could, and that if we did slam into a mountain, I’d already be unconcious in an alcoholic stupor.
more alienating than a broadsheet newspaper is a foreign book - but I would not recommend pulling that one off within the first 2 weeks. never had the lunch or dinner debate though - last time it was: “something from the chippy, luv?” got a builder’s tea and then they were winding me up about my ’sheep-pods’ - a public-art/seating module feature… it probably helps being female in these cases.
as for classic fm besides the radio doesn’t really work in my wonderful high-tack flat - unless it’s galaxy - and even that requires me to stand in the middle of my bedroom holding the radio at eye-level…
Mr Fact Barra is on my to do list as well. I’ve read of people flying there just to be able to claim they’ve been at that “airport”, so it must be a bit special. Apart from the fact that I haven’t been to that part of the Outer Hebrides yet and think I should visit at least once. And that I’d like to see from where Silversprite blogs all his sunsets and beaches on Berneray and I could probably combine the two.
Omg! That is too funny!