A high street adventure
Stop me if I’ve blogged on this subject before – or indeed if in the past you have had similar experiences to those I’m about to describe – but in this day and age one of the things that metaphorically slaps me in the face every time I go out and about in my local high street is the sheer awfulness and irrelevance of the vast bulk of humanity.
Let me explain.
I hate shopping of any kind and indeed only ever venture out in public in circumstances when this is absolutely essential and when in advance I have fully prepared myself.
In the case of shopping, therefore, a pre-condition is that I have honed down my list of prospective purchases or activities to the absolute minimum. Furthermore, when then going about my business, I remain 100% focused with my intended verbal exchanges ready and often rehearsed – everything designed with economy of effort and avoidance of time-wasting in mind.
As the old and embittered sage tells us, when it comes to war no amount of careful planning and preparation survives more than about three seconds after the opening salvo – the ‘lesson’ being that any battle (like dealing with the public, some like me would say) becomes instant chaos.
Take yesterday, which for me – like the proverbial curate’s egg – had both its good and bad parts.
My first stop was for a very simple transaction – visiting the local branch of my high street bank to deposit a cheque.
Past bad experience (plus a pre-existing premonition on my part, which Fate inevitably determines tends to prompt in practice the very thing that I am fearful of happening) meant that I was not prepared the ‘new’ system whereby one can allegedly deposit cheques via a special ‘hole in the wall’ cash machine inside the branch.
I’ve tried that previously on four occasions in my life.
It may not be entirely coincidence that the first and fourth of these were failures – and took place when I was attempting to ‘fly solo’ – while that the second and third (the ones that succeeded) were when I had accepted the supervising attentions of the friendly and helpful member of the bank’s staff then on duty to help old and/or inexperienced customers who tend to become confused when confronted by machines and/or automated systems.
The above explains why I was determined to go to the far end of the building where customers can queue to go to an open-plan area with a long counter and bank staffers set up as if behind – as used to be the case in the old days – a ceiling-high protective glass window … only with the window no longer there.
At first it seemed like I might have hit the jackpot. Although there was only one member of staff at the two ‘stations’ – the other being unoccupied – she was dealing with a single (female) customer who seemed at first sight to be reaching the end of her transaction, whatever it was. I was, as the only person then queuing, next in line.
What could possibly go wrong?
Well, the first thing – of course – was that the sole female customer was ancient, by which definition I mean to impart that she was at least my age (66) or older.
The second issue was that, from her clothing and demeanour, she was clearly one of those individuals programmed by their DNA to be perfectly pleasant (harmless even in small doses) but also vague, absent-minded and confused.
The long and the short of it was that she took a total of eight-and-a-half minutes to complete her one transaction, by which time the sole member of the queue had become close to losing his will to live.
The causes were an inability to understand the request(s) of the member of staff dealing with her; the failure to have her credit or debit card, or even the bank statement she wished to query, ready in her hand – she had to search for them in her handbag which took an age; and lastly, inevitably, her need to tell the staffer her entire life story since the end of the Falklands War.
Having eventually ‘paid in’ my cheque, I then travelled about two hundred yards to the WH Smiths store, upon the first floor of which there exists my local Royal Mail sub-post office.
For this excursion, my sole purpose was to send a hardback book by ‘special delivery’ – a service which cost £13 for the weight of the book in question but means firstly, that the book’s journey is ‘trackable’ and secondly, it has to be signed for upon arrival, a device that ensures (or hopefully does) that one can be sure the recipient has received it.
Had there been no other customer on hand my transaction should have taken no more than three minutes max – as indeed it did, when finally I got to a counter and was served.
However, getting to a counter to be served took me the best part of quarter of an hour.
The set-up was that there were two counters – each with two stations – the one set at right-angles to the other: the first intended for normal Post Office business and the second intended for dealing exclusively with Foreign Exchange and/or travel matters. I therefore queued at the first.
As I arrived there, both stations were attended by customers going about their business. I was third in the queue.
Nothing happened for at least four minutes.
Not only were both customers at the stations accompanied by family members, all seven of them were speaking primarily ‘foreign’ and were having difficulty making themselves understood and/or in understanding what was required of them, this to the point where the ‘teller’ from one of the stations on the ‘Foreign Exchange’ counter had to come over and join in the discussion – thereby leaving only one station manned on the counter he should have been behind.
Eventually both stations became clear – I would now be next but one in line.
Then, as one customer went forward to the first station, the ‘teller’ behind the other suddenly got up and walked away. I don’t know where she was going or why – perhaps to the toilet, perhaps for a mid-morning coffee break … perhaps to go shopping elsewhere? She never came back.
Then the female customer at the first station was asked to step aside. She hadn’t filled out some form correctly, or else perhaps added her sender’s address to her package. She was motioned to stand at a nearby desk, write whatever it was out in longhand … and then bum to the front of the queue again to get her package dealt with.
The next lady went forward to that station. I was now next in line, whenever a station became free!
Dear reader, it took another ten minutes before a station became free – and, by the time it did, it was one of the ‘Foreign Exchange’ station on the other counter!
By the time I had walked home afterwards I felt that I needed a stiff drink.
The only problem was that I never drink before 6.00pm and had to wait another six and a half hours ….
