The Safe
Every evening before we leave the cash office, myself and a colleague count the safe. The safe should have €18,500 in it. We count the notes in the tin, the full bags of coins, the loose bags of coins, and the loose coins. If the safe is missing a cent, we are held responsible.
I work with a Polish woman who always appears to be in a state between hunger and grief, but according to my friend Debbie, this is what is known as the ‘Polish melancholy’. She previously worked in a shop where if the safe was missing money, that money came out of her paycheck. So to say she takes the safe in Hamleys very seriously, is an understatement.
Yesterday, after counting up the various denominations, we realised that the safe was €500 short, and to my surprise and awe, instead of holding her head in her hands and wrinkling her eyebrows as per usual, Joanna burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. This fit lasted for about ten minutes, while I sat awkwardly by her side, staring into my lap. When it was finally over, she assured me that she was alright, and that it was just a method of coping with stress. Frankly, I found it quite frightening.
I hate the safe, when I am adding up all the different denominations of notes and coins on the calculator and I can see that its not going to add up to the correct amount, I get an awful sickly feeling in the pit of my stomach, a feeling of worry that either I made a mistake, or that my superiors would think that I was dipping into the safe for my own benefit. It’s a terrible feeling. Also, working with a lunatic doesn’t help my nerves. I’m definitely going grey.
We found the €500, it was a miscount. But thanks to Joanna’s little incident, I think I have an ulcer on the way. Real sound.
