KimElliott.net

Long before I was legally old enough to work, I faked my way into a series of telesales jobs. This is my C.V of that time.

Summer, 1996. Posh double glazing.

Lasted twenty five minutes into the first shift. How many windows and doors would you replace in your home, does not a sales call make.

Autumn, 1996, More double glazing.

Slightly less posh. Get called a starfish everyday for a month in the classic team humiliation game, who is a star, who is a starfish? by a guy I once turned down in the local goth club. Learn the definition of karma, or his definition at least.

Meet my nemesis, crush him with my superior telesales skills.

Arrive one wintery evening to find the boss shredding paperwork and staff looting telephones and fax machines. Have to collect payment cheque midweek at noon, difficult because I’m only fourteen and have to bunk from school to do it.

Winter, 1996. Sex line.

Turn up to telesales job interview that insists over 18s only. Bring fake I.D. Learn it’s phone sex. Wonder why I didn’t work that out beforehand. Back away slowly.

Winter, 1996. Assorted.

Get a job in a three quarter empty Victorian office block. Long halls, red carpet, like The Shining. Just me and a man, maybe 45, in a room. He files papers and watches me make calls.

I sell milk subscriptions, charity donation box installations and private medical insurance, even though I don’t know what it is.

Terrified of the corridors, not at all bothered being alone locked in an office with a strange man. By now I am fifteen and therefore convinced I am impervious to all danger, apart from supernatural threats.

Spring, 1997. Home care systems.

Old man locks room one day and doesn’t come back. Suspect ghosts.

New job convincing people to allow a salesman into their home on the pretence of cleaning their carpets. Much like inviting in a Vampire, you’re screwed, at least until you agree to buy a fancy vacuum cleaner.

Company is American. Get a shaving foam pie in the face at least once a fortnight. Learn all the words to the sales chants of the door to door guys including, what are we? RHINO, what do we do, CHARGE.

Begin taking on more shifts and am soon working every evening and weekends. Tracy Chapman convinces me to save all my paycheques toward a Ford Capri.

Win a small bottle of Archers for most leads and mistakenly down it like an alcopop. Never touch the peachy stuff again.

Get promoted and run the team. Boss goes to America, leaves me in charge of the call centre. Have to fire someone twice my age, cry after shift.

Lose office keys, climb in through window, find keys in bag.

Height of summer. Take my GCSEs wearing normal clothes under my uniform. Run out of exams and take uniform off at bus stop. Barely make it to shift on time. Repeat for two weeks, hope no one from work spots me in school clothes. Try not to sweat.

Call in sick for the first time. Saturday morning. Confess first love has dumped me and I’m stranded, miles from the office. Sales guy drives up to collect me. Gives long speech about getting over first love. Feel cared for by failing salespeople in stained polyester shirts.

Autumn, 1999. Timeshare.

Move away to college. Back in the bullpen selling timeshare to people without passports. Have coughing fit in the interview, somehow still get job.

New boss arrives to shape up the staff.  He is sixty, orange and wears comedy ties. When I look at him I think about cardiac arrest.

Reunited with my old nemesis, crush him again with my superior telesales skills.

Get promoted to closer and moved to room full of regional staff taking inbound calls for Scottish Power. People ask what the strange noise is in the background.

Summoned once a week to receive bonus money in white envelope. Feel like pint sized Mafioso. Have disposable income for the first time. Buy wedding dress from Oxfam and go to raves in it. Believe I am cool and original.

Boss declares office fit and heads home. I am asked to present him with cake. Everyone cheers. Two weeks later the business folds. No more envelopes. Wedding dress smells of farm.

Spring, 2000. Back to double glazing.

Last telesales job. Barren estate miles from town. Bloody double glazing, but a record £5 an hour basic wage in two hour shifts per day.

Meet Nemesis again, this time the roles are reversed. I am in the gutter, a real starfish. His eccentricity just makes people confess they want to replace their windows. They can feel his fun Hawaiian shirt through the phone.

After two weeks without a single lead and an £80 pay cheque, I beat a noble retreat and resign to the bleach blonde 22 year old college dropout running the place. She tells me she’s impressed at my candidacy. Manage not to correct her.

The nemesis bids me farewell, his smug grin 40% gum, 60% braces. I leave with my telesales reputation in tatters. I see him again, by chance, fifteen years later on Oxford Street. He’s still in sales and Hawaiian shirts. I don’t tell him what I’m doing.

Summer, 2000. Get a real job.

Sorry to the countless people I called during dinner, to all the guys I promised to go on a date with after they had given me a lead and finally to Mr Turtle, for laughing hysterically at your name and having to hang up only to call back five minutes later and do the same thing.