December 3 must have been a special day, but there was no announcement in the press or on television to this effect. Blissful in my ignorance, I sauntered down to a branch of a well-known money transfer agency in the hope of enlightenment regarding the nature of transatlantic transactions. As I approached the front door, the security man rose as if to bar my entry. “All I want is to ask a question," I said. I mean, once bitten, twice shy. I had had my head bitten off for not having my passport on me when I wanted to send a few dollars to a beneficiary (whose name I care not to disclose) at a location 55 degrees north of the Equator. Well, all right then, a man is asking me every month for a modest amount albeit in three-digits to store some items of ghastly furniture. Indeed, we all have our bulky sofas to bear. The man in the blue uniform blurted out something about “people in there." “What's so unusual about ‘people' being ‘in there'?" I snapped, as I brushed passed my interlocutor onto the premises. The man in blue followed me in. The only welcoming feature of this office was the rush of cool air from the A/C, which was refreshing after a ten-minute jaunt in the midday heat. Sure enough, there were “people in there," but on the other side of the counter. I waited impatiently, but no employee caught my eye. Instead, the security man attempted to supply more information about the consequences of having “people in there." However, he was not allowed to finish his speech, which was about as clear as mud to me, because of the hubbub behind the counter. A man – the only one – who was seated behind the glass partition, attracted my attention only to ask me to wait “five minutes, because we've got people in here." “I only want to ask one question!" I spat, “Besides, I've heard about all about your ‘five minutes' before. Look, Sunshine, I haven't got much time!" I was going to deliver a short lecture about dropping everything to serve customers and treating them – What was the point? I turned to leave. The security person's face had “I told you so" written all over it. I so much felt I wanted to edit his features to read ‘bloody pulp,' but I had no time. I was due back at the office in twenty minutes. I broke my return journey at a sweetshop-cum-stationer's-cum-tyre dealer, and chose two cans of fizzy drink, two packets of crisps, and one small packet of biscuits. (For our American readers: sodas, potato chips and cookies). “Pick up another one," cajoled the salesman who was indolence personified. I raised my eyebrows questioningly, and then my face darkened. “I only want one pack of biscuits, please." “Pick up another one." “Is it a buy-one-get-one-free offer? Are they well past their sell-by date and you want to get rid of them?" “No. If you take another one, that'll make the price up to a nice†round LE5." “Look, Sunbeam, you're the one who should have the change!" The sodas, potato chips and cookies nearly ended up stuffed in the vendor's nostrils. I stormed out of the shop. Unrefreshed and fuming, I entered a bookshop. I knew exactly what I wanted to buy. It took three minutes to selected three books. I approached the counter. The sales staff were chatting animatedly about who took whose pen. “Look, I know that pens are very important, especially in a bookshop," I interrupted, “but if you want to earn enough money to buy a replacement, perhaps you'd like to ring up these here books, if that's not too much trouble." The sales clerks' fell silent, wide-eyed with surprise that a customer dare address them in that tone. One of them took the books and used the laser device attached to their computer to scan the bar codes on the covers. After several attempts to wrench a response from the infuriating electronic device, he asked me to “come back tomorrow." The books joined the fizzy drinks, crisps and biscuits in orbit. Then I needed change of an LE200 pound note. A bank was still open at 4.30 so I breezed in expecting instant cooperation. I thrust my note under the grille and asked – politely, I hasten to add – smaller denominations adding up to two hundred. “No change," the clerk growled. “B-but, this is a bank," I stammered. The clerk ignored me. As I quitted the premises, I suddenly realised that July 3 was BBC Day – Buffons Behind the Counter. (I do have alternative for the first ‘B' but coyness prevents the writer from producing it here.) That said, one wonders if it is not all a matter of mood and perception. On those days when one is short of patience and when one's fuse is dramatically shorter than on most other days, the preponderance of BBC is more acutely felt. Otherwise, we accept the surliness and indifference on the one hand, and the pushiness and officiousness on the other, as part of the rough-and-tumble of being a customer and consumer of services. However, let the fact not be overlooked that most of us are trying to earn a living in currently ‘trying' circumstances and that it is not easy to force a smile to induce the customer to spend more or accept a petty inconvenience. To fume and complain are easy. More challenging is forcing a smile and understanding the plight of the person behind the counter, because s/he might be feeling the effects of ICI (Idiots Coming In [this shop]) Day.
