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Introduction

Staying Put

Fat Rascal

Heathrow

Coach House

Yorkshire Notes

Organizing Labor

Circle of Friends

Bank Holiday

Harrogate Note

TuesLet

Living In Sin

Harrogate History

Dales Day

Tueslet Two

Wensleydale and Dr. Watson

Ah! London

More Pictures

Fat Rascals at Bettys

Organizing Labor

     A fellow on BBC TV1 this morning offered the opinion that a main reason for the lack of acceptance of British goods abroad was to be found in unimaginative marketing practices. That didn't sound right to me, brought up on J. Arthur Rank images and a tradition of fabulous posters and commercial murals in tube stations, so I decided to do a quick survey of image vs reality.

     I seemed to be short on products, and at least for the time being thought a quick look at services might do as preliminary data. As I rounded the drive way out of number 17 and onto Park Drive, as fate would have it who should be working the 300 yards plus of street, but a fellow in a street sweeping machine. Actually, it has the shape of street sweeping machines back home, you know the kind they use on the Safeway lot very early Saturday mornings. But it is smaller, and just fits the sidewalks on Park Drive. It is about 6 feet long, 6 feet wide, and has a enclosed seat compartment with a roll bar over the driver. It also has a large commercial vacuum in front that feeds a large storage bin on the back. The sweeper seemed to be on its way up the opposite side of the street. I proceeded to the corner red Majesty's Royal Post Box as to not be seen (I was wearing my red shirt) and set myself for data collection. The driver moved slowly up the street, sweeping for all the machine was worth, for about 50 feet where it approached some light debris. The driver then stopped the machine, opened the door, got out, and with a long stick with a nail in the end, picked up the two or three candy bar rappers and a paper cup and then, with his other hand, removed them from the nail on the end of the stick, opened the top of the bin on the back of the sweeping machine, and tossed them in. He then reentered the machine, drove another few feet to the next discarded paper cup, stopped, opened the door, got out and performed the same tasks again. He did this several times until he had moved about 80 yards down Park Drive. Then he crossed to the opposite side of the street, turned around, drove over the curb stone, turned on the sweeping vacuum and proceeded back down the sidewalk in the direction from which he had come, stopping now and again to spear paper cups, eventually completing a full square. When he reached the end (i.e. starting point), he turned off the vacuum, returned to the original side of the street, and drove back to where he had made his first change of sides. At that point, he got out his nail stick and repeated the whole process. Near as I could tell, the result of his effort (work energy?) was the transfer of 9 candy wrappers and 7 paper cups from the street to the bin of the machine, more or less sweep a section of the sidewalk which didn't seem very dirty to me as side walks go, and complete 20 minutes of his shift. At that rate, it could be projected that he could complete the sweep of the 300-yard Park Drive in approximately 60 minutes, not counting tea breaks. I may have missed something, but it is clear that he appeared to be a happy worker, and as we all know happy workers are productive workers. It is entirely possible that given the total scope of things and in the sense that the end goal is to have a perfect world balance, he was about as fined tuned as he could be.

     Our second work sample was provided by a visit to the chemist, which as you probably know, we refer to as a drug store. No, we usually refer to it as Payless. We were in search of three items, one being a prescription from a U.S. physician. The clerk who served us was very alert, responsive, polite, and helpful. She was tastefully dressed in a white professional looking smock and made up (i.e., painted) like a Calder. She looked up the item in question in a large loose leaf binder, and found that it didn't appear to exist in the UK. She asked a colleague to help, who after verifying the previous finding in the same binder, agreed. The two of them called in a third white-coated associate, who after conferring with the first two, asked Theresa what exactly did she want? Theresa repeated the name of the product, and added that it was a mouth wash to be used after oral surgery with the hope of preventing gingivitis. "Ah," said the latest reinforcement, taking a package from the self behind her, "I believe this may meet your needs." It did not require a prescription, so we said it would be fine.

     The next item Theresa requested was calcium. Simple calcium pills. Looks of concern were quietly exchanged between members of the team which had remained poised and ready to serve, and in response to a call made discretely on the intercom, a supervisor appeared. She was much taller and slimmer than the others, and pinned to the pocket above the left breast area was a gold bar with the word Supervisor printed in dark black letters. Clearly, she was also stymied and quickly, but also with a sense of problem-solving purpose, disappeared between the shelves.

     "Gone to check with the Chemist," explained the third clerk, who seemed to be striking for the supervisor position in the event that it should become vacant in the near future.

     Soon, out of the shelves with an air of casual authority and dressed in a white laboratory jacket, marched the male chemist followed by the Supervisor. "What kind of calcium?" he asked without any preliminary extension of customer kindness.

     "I haven't the slightest fucking idea," Theresa replied, demurely. "Calcium is calcium where I come from." It may have seemed that we were tying up the store for our meager needs, having engaged three clerks, a supervisor, and the chemist in the deal, but there were still two clerks remaining unoccupied.
When we finished there, we discovered we were running short on cash and detoured to the Yorkshire Bank to buy $100 worth of pound notes. First off, we went to the wrong window, but were politely rerouted to the foreign currency exchange center which consisted of another window surrounded by stacks of useless brochures and self-standing advertising display cards, a feature probably suggested by one of the bank's outside consultants. There, after learning that the teller had lived in Pleasantville, Ohio for 8 months while his father was doing a course at Johnson Wax, the exchange was initiated and the correct amount of pounds was about to be slid under the window from his side to ours. But, just at that moment the teller signaled his supervisor to check the calculation that he had made on his electric counting machine. There seemed to be a question about the two percent service fee. She did a rapid hand multiplication of two percent times 100 on her electric calculator, and then asked to see the teller's calculation. "Didn't write it down," he said. As she directed a look of serious concern to him, he continued, "Seeings its 2% and they wanted £100 I just divided by 50." There was a brief exchange, and then she frowned as said, "Sure, right!"smiled conspiratorially, and left.

     It is just a start, but I hope to catch the TV commentator again and see what else he has to say about organizing workers and the problems exporting British products. I know, products and services are like apples and oranges, but like we say in American, one rotten banana can sink a ship.