It looked very dark this morning when the alarm clock went off. I knew that fog was forecast overnight, and was planning to leave early for work. In fact, as I went out to open the pop hole of the chicken house, the fog didn't seem that thick, and it didn't get any worse even along the low-lying stretch approaching the river Stour, so I arrived with about ten minutes in hand. The manager arrived a moment after me, having also allowed extra time for the journey.
They had a very busy day on Saturday, though nobody quite knew why. The weather then was OK-ish, but nothing to get very excited about. Whatever the reason, it had worn off by today, and we had another quiet Monday. I suppose it was damp and foggy all day, so not wonderful weather for wandering about outside, though it was pretty mild. At least Saturday's brisk trade proved that people will still buy plants, some of the time.
The owner told us all sternly that she was tired of finding every single evening when she reconciled the tills that someone had put credit card transactions through as cheque or voucher, and that it had to stop. I think that probably means it wasn't me doing it, as I'm not there all the time, and wasn't certainly guilty this weekend, because I was in West Sussex.
At ten o'clock the phone rang, and it was the chap who has taken over the cafe, to say that due to staff shortage nobody would be in to run the cafe. I see trouble ahead with the arrangement for the cafe. I don't think it is clear to either the new operators or the plant centre owners whether it is being run to maximise profit for the people who have taken it on, and whether, as long as they pay the rent, they are at perfect liberty to choose their own hours, much as they might with a market stall, or whether it is supposed to be operated as a service to our customers, given that it is featured on our website, in which case its opening hours ought to tie in with ours. If I'd come to buy some plants, thinking I'd have a nice day out, and get some tea or a light lunch, I'd be rather irritated to discover that the cafe was arbitrarily shut. I've thought for several weeks now that the cafe chap was rather keen to shut up once lunchtime was over, rather than hanging on for afternoon plant centre visitors who might want some tea.
When I commented on the cafe's sketchy hours a while back to the Systems Administrator, the SA replied that the trouble was, we didn't have an SLA. (That is a Service Level Agreement to you and me, a document that sets out in exhausting detail exactly what your outsource supplier is going to do for you. Writing good and watertight ones that cover every eventuality is a fine art. The SA used to do them for a living, amongst other things).
That was it, really. I stuck price labels on some pansies, and cut down herbaceous plants that had died back, and put a few things that didn't want to get too wet under cover in the tunnel. The gardener showed me the photographs of his recent trip to Africa, which looked very exotic. I agreed in principle with the woman who works in the office to go and see Kathryn Tickell at the Colchester Arts Centre, if we could still get tickets. It was a damp, quiet day.
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