The Crippler and Other Maladies

"That girl who broke my heart all those years ago was cold, but not as cold as this." I thought this as I worked through a huge stack of boxes in the walk-in freezer. I had been asked to help out because I am a "strapping lad", and as soon as I walked into the freezer everybody disappeared. This is the leitmotif of retail: everybody is looking for a way they can waste time until they can go home, especially the managers. Before they all left me, I was presented with a jacket, a pair of ski pants and some fluffy boots, all of which stank like death and sweat. I attempted the freezer without any of them first. I realised my mistake after about three minutes: my hands were blue and I began shivering violently. My dignity took a battering as I donned the stinky ski-pants and ripe-smelling jacket and a pair of festering gloves. I left the boots of course, they weren't the over-the-shoe kind and I was glad to risk frostbite to avoid the mysterious quagmire each contained.

The freezer department at Christmas is an odd place. You would assume that it would be dead, everybody after fresh ingredients, or food items that would warm on a winter's day. But no, they want ice cream, sorbet, frozen cheesecake and most bizarrely frozen turkey.
"Have you got frozen turkey?" a woman asked me.
"We've run out," I said.
"What am I going to do now?" she said raising her voice and showing her teeth.
"Why don't you buy a turkey from the fridge and freeze it?" I suggested, but this did not quell the rage. She began to yell that if she wanted an unfrozen turkey she wouldn't be in the freezer department.
"The turkey's are the same," I said. "Some go to the freezer, some go to the fridge. They were slaughtered on the same day." I emphasised the word "slaughtered", hoping to fuel her insanity further, but she shouted:
"Forget it, I'll have to come back." And then she added, "Thanks for your help." She stalked off, hunting for her next opportunity for outrage.

The freezer was a bad job, but I wasn't on it for long. I was moved to what is known (by me) as "The Crippler". I am not a small man. I am tall, 6ft 7 inches tall. And The Crippler is a punishing onslaught. Most other people call it The Express Till, but that is too gentle a name. You are required to stand behind the till, serving people with no more than ten items, but everything is so low. The bags are a shin level, the till drawer is at crotch level and the screen is at naval level. I stand, hunched over, clutching my lower back and wincing with pain. After an hour, my legs become numb, my head aches and my pelvis starts twitching. Not in a good way. The worst thing is that people bring trollies full of food, clothes and miscellaneous items to The Crippler, and when you politely tell them it's baskets only, they look at you and say: "No, I'm not going to queue." So to avoid an argument you serve them, making the queue of sandwich-buying businessmen angry and aggressive. There is no winning in the retail trade, especially at Christmas. People are stressed and looking for the slightest excuse to wield their anger. The lowly sales assistant happens to be in harms way, all the time. I swear that most of these people have sales assistant-shaped dummies in a cupboard at home that they take out to knock around when life's frustration gets the better of them and they can't make it to an out-of-town retail development...