observations from downstairs

five days and I already have customer categories. #

I have been working for less than a week and I already know that people become extremely strange when discussing their own skin. There are the efficient clients, whom I adore: hello, appointment, lamp, goodbye, everybody survives. Then there are the negotiators. If you tell them a certain timing is appropriate they immediately begin trying to negotiate with you as though I personally invented human skin and could alter the rules if they ask sweetly enough. “But another two minutes?” No. “One?” This isn’t a market stall. Then there are the inspectors who come out and examine every centimetre of themselves under the light. `”Do I look darker?”` Signora, I met you eighteen minutes ago. I do not possess an archival photograph of your previous arm.

And then there are the talkers. My God, the talkers. A woman today managed to tell me about her husband, her sister, her neighbour and an argument involving a Christmas lunch while I was trying to explain a cream. I barely spoke and somehow know half her family tree. I think the counter creates the same psychological effect as sitting beside somebody on a train: people assume you are temporarily available for confession.

I may have accidentally found the perfect job for somebody with a blog.

Remember me, Eclipse.