You Say Tomato, I Say Whatever
I used to think that Londoners were a bit rude, but now I realise I was wrong. They're simply short of time. I base this new theory on a series of small events I witnessed while travelling across the vast metropolis this evening. The first was on a slow train from Gatwick to Victoria. A French chap sitting next to me was poring over a printed sheet of travel instructions which might have been given to him by friends or colleagues. He asked my advice on various train connections but, as a stranger here myself, I wasn't much help to him. When the conductor arrived my French chum thrust the paper towards him and sought an expert opinion.
"Do I change once or go on straight?"
The conductor who had, hitherto, been checking tickets at Olympic speed, took the time to read the print-out and advise the man that he should make a change at the next stop.
All well and good, but the Frenchman wanted confirmation.
"The next stop? You mean I don't stay on this train?"
"No, "said the conductor, hurrying on, "just do as it says on the paper."
It sounded rude but, as I reckon the conductor felt he had allocated enough time to this query. Thirty seconds, in fact.
Later tonight I found myself wandering around Notting Hill, collecting free newspapers from eager vendors and being one of the few people with time to take a leaflet about "God's Purpose" from a very nice woman who smiled at me in a way that made me think I might not be past saving.
I popped into a supermarket in search of any kind of food that would prevent me from ordering room service in my hotel. Chicken legs and bananas, as it turned out.
At the checkout I had the good fortune to be standing behind a woman with a tinned tomato problem. Unable to find a single, unbashed tin of her preferred brand, she had torn one from a multi-pack of four. The checkout girl explained that this tin would not scan and that she could either buy all four or choose something else.
"But I want one tin of that brand of tomatoes!" said the customer.
At this point, the checkout girl abandoned her post to go and search for said tin and came back triumphant, holding the can aloft and smiling. But, I hate to tell you, there was a tiny bash in that tin too. Oh yes.
There followed a two-minute tirade from the customer who refused an offer to speak to the manager by saying that the staff on the checkout were "the manager's representatives on the shop floor".
It sounded almost Biblical.
The checkout girl listened but, just like the train conductor, she clearly felt she had allocated enough time to this problem.
"Whatever," was her only response, and the tomato woman stormed out of the shop.
And I had sympathy for the girl. In London, you see, it takes so long to get anywhere. People seem to spend hours on tube train, buses or just waiting to cross roads. I'm guessing that's why they don't have the time to deal, at length, with lost or unhappy customers or to accept a leaflet about how peace and life can be "abundant and external". (no other readining matter in this hotel)
Besides, my bananas were getting warm and even I was running out of patience.
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