From now on, all future updates on my French Obsession can be found at my new Wordpress home: http://freshwordswriter.wordpress.com/french-obsession
Look forward to seeing you there.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
Alright son?
I have at long last discovered something about living in This morning as I walked from my house heading for the coalface I found myself fast approaching a little old lady on the pavement. Like many little old ladies she was taking each step carefully and slowly, helped along by a stick to give her extra stability. Her progress was slow but steady.
In great contrast, my morning routine is typified by being in something of a rush. The often repeated snooze facility on my alarm clock ensures that I am commonly late before I even get out of bed, so the walk is more of a run most mornings – though I’ve never yet resorted to Steve Martin’s advice that skipping is as fast as running but does not make you look like you’re in a hurry; no, it just makes you look like an idiot.
This morning then, as I ate into the distance between myself and the little old lady I first though, crikey, I hope she doesn’t get a fright with me coming up so fast behind her. As the toe of my ancient oxford’s caught on a raised crack in the surface of the pavement though (don’t get me started about the state of our pavements and roads), my thoughts quickly turned to, crikey, I hope I don’t fall on top of her.
Lady luck was on my side though and I neither startled the poor soul, nor crushed her beneath my feeble ten and a half stone frame. Looking at me with her kindly face as I tried to regain my composure she said something that warmed my heart.
“Are you alright son?” she said.
Now just to be clear, while I was pleased that she asked if I was OK, I was over the moon that she called me “son”. I’m 43 years old! I can’t remember the last time someone called me son, though it was probably another old lady I was in danger of falling on top of.
In Scotland we have that rare facility which, like the meadow pipit, is a joy to behold at first hand; that ability to be so flippantly casual in our exchanges, but in a “I really care about whether you fall” way, rather than in the “ha, ha, look at that numpty take a tumble” way.
There is refreshing honesty that at its best measures up well against what can sometimes be the faux politesse of the French. Sure the French are supremely polite, their language demands it; but you can often be left wondering if they really care about whether you fall on your backside or not.
So although on balance I’d rather be sipping pastis and eating olives, it’s important to remember that every nation and community has an upside, however small.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Coming over all French
I’ve come over all French today. The Scottish heat wave that has seen us bask for the last few days in temperatures of over 25 Celsius has turned me all continental. Yesterday, for the first time in my memory of living in
Indeed yesterday we had the full Provencal experience. Croissants, cool fresh juice, and freshly brewed coffee to kick off the day; a mixed salad of bountiful provisions, with warm, crusty bread and a glass of chilled rosé for lunch; and a tender fillet of salmon baked with honey, lemon and ginger (and more chilled wine) to round things off. A little stroll into the main “place au centre ville” for a digestif is all that would have been required to make it a perfect day but given the lack of convivial café’s round our neck of the woods a quick brandy on patio stood in.
I must say that I just feel better. Better that it is not raining, that the wind isn’t howling round every corner, that the sun is proud and perky in the sky. The overall effect of this weather is to lighten my temperament and make me think happy thoughts – if I were a ten year old girl I’d be dreaming of kittens and puppies.
I’ve reached a conclusion this week that while all of the other things I admire about French life are valuable and essential it is that commodity, so unpredictable in the west of
It can’t surely be the heat alone, or even the Vitamin D booster (as I’ve noted in previous posts), but I think it is something more complex. It is a rich cocktail of all those things that I hold dear – for even though the weather may bring me down, I aim to live my life in as continental a manner as possible. So perhaps it is the case when the sun shines it brings all these other factors together, the glue that binds to coin a phrase.
Either way, all I know is that this beautiful Mediterranean weather has me dreaming once more of olives and pastis, and of a shady veranda in front of a typical Provencal villa where I can jot down more of these thoughts, write possibly the first great Gallo/Scots crime novel and make a modest yet comfortable living with my family around me and the pain in my joints less pronounced.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Fill her up my good man.
In the small French Provencal village where I spent a fine fortnight some years back there is a tiny and quite fabulous wine shop. Each and every morning as I strolled au Centre Ville, en route to the boulangerie for the daily supply of freshly baked bread, I would nod politely to M. Gibet as he sat serenely outside his shop smoking one of those little cigars you get in tins whilst reading the morning paper. Beside him, lying dutifully at his feet sat Armand, as stout a poodle as you will ever have seen who's only evidence of life was the occasional yelp he made in his sleep as he dreamt, I suppose, of worrying French sheep.
Now back home, we have a strange impression of a French wine shop. Most who have never visited one would imagine it to be a fine establishment with majestically racked wines of all vintages and characteristics. A shopkeeper with a canvas apron as well would probably be high up there in the imagination. And there's no doubt that places like that do exist and very fine they are too. But M. Gibet's shop is a wonderful antidote to those chattering chardonnay classes who would have us drink only the right sort of wine at the right times and with the correct foods.
The great thing about M. Gibet's shop is that he will happily fill your empties at a fraction of the cost for the bottled article — and all he asks for is modest remuneration and that your bottles are clean (actually, I suppose all he really asks for is the money, it's up to you if you want to put fresh wine in dirty bottles). For inside his shop, its coolness enhanced by the basic render finish on the walls (very minimalist, very noughties!) lie 6 enormous plastic vats each with a small blackboard hanging from the kind of nozzle and hose affair you might see on an old fashioned petrol pump. And scribbled on each in that typical French cursive script is what serves for a label promising such transports of delight (in those glory pre-Euro days) as "Cote du Rhone, 11.5%, 12f/l" or "Cotes du Rhone 13.5%, 14f/l" and even (my personal favourite) the "Cotes du Rhone 15%, 17f/l". The signs do not even tell you if the wines are red or white – it is self evident through the translucence of the huge plastic vats.
When it comes to vintage though, it is important to remember that these are young wines. So young in fact that they are hardly out of nappies. Their vintages are measured in terms of months rather than years (ah yes, the October 1999, 15%, that was a great month!) but what they lack in maturity they make up for in youthful charm and vigour – as well as a frighteningly high alcohol content in some cases. These are wines for supping over a hearty plate of pasta; for those occasions (in our household at least) when we just want to slump down in front of the TV and not have to think, and what's more, not have to pay too much for a drink to make the programmes seem better than they actually are.
But the real beauty and pleasure comes when your bottle is down to its last drop. You don't throw it away, or set it aside for recycling in the big skip down at the supermarket sense, but simply give it a good rinse out, sterilise it if you must, then take it back along to the charming M. Gibet the following morning and say 'fill it up my good man' (along with the other dozen empties you have).
Believe me when I say life is so much simpler down there: bread is freshly bought each morning; local farmers sell their own produce at the local markets every week without fail — not for me those stupid little plastic containers with a few meagre sprigs of herbs which are strangely prevalent back here in Ecosse — and I don't have to stand in front of huge ranges of bonnes vins, trying to decide which of the 300 or so different varieties from the new world will satisfy my palette; just stick the nozzle into the bottle and pull the trigger.
Now back home, we have a strange impression of a French wine shop. Most who have never visited one would imagine it to be a fine establishment with majestically racked wines of all vintages and characteristics. A shopkeeper with a canvas apron as well would probably be high up there in the imagination. And there's no doubt that places like that do exist and very fine they are too. But M. Gibet's shop is a wonderful antidote to those chattering chardonnay classes who would have us drink only the right sort of wine at the right times and with the correct foods.
The great thing about M. Gibet's shop is that he will happily fill your empties at a fraction of the cost for the bottled article — and all he asks for is modest remuneration and that your bottles are clean (actually, I suppose all he really asks for is the money, it's up to you if you want to put fresh wine in dirty bottles). For inside his shop, its coolness enhanced by the basic render finish on the walls (very minimalist, very noughties!) lie 6 enormous plastic vats each with a small blackboard hanging from the kind of nozzle and hose affair you might see on an old fashioned petrol pump. And scribbled on each in that typical French cursive script is what serves for a label promising such transports of delight (in those glory pre-Euro days) as "Cote du Rhone, 11.5%, 12f/l" or "Cotes du Rhone 13.5%, 14f/l" and even (my personal favourite) the "Cotes du Rhone 15%, 17f/l". The signs do not even tell you if the wines are red or white – it is self evident through the translucence of the huge plastic vats.
When it comes to vintage though, it is important to remember that these are young wines. So young in fact that they are hardly out of nappies. Their vintages are measured in terms of months rather than years (ah yes, the October 1999, 15%, that was a great month!) but what they lack in maturity they make up for in youthful charm and vigour – as well as a frighteningly high alcohol content in some cases. These are wines for supping over a hearty plate of pasta; for those occasions (in our household at least) when we just want to slump down in front of the TV and not have to think, and what's more, not have to pay too much for a drink to make the programmes seem better than they actually are.
But the real beauty and pleasure comes when your bottle is down to its last drop. You don't throw it away, or set it aside for recycling in the big skip down at the supermarket sense, but simply give it a good rinse out, sterilise it if you must, then take it back along to the charming M. Gibet the following morning and say 'fill it up my good man' (along with the other dozen empties you have).
Believe me when I say life is so much simpler down there: bread is freshly bought each morning; local farmers sell their own produce at the local markets every week without fail — not for me those stupid little plastic containers with a few meagre sprigs of herbs which are strangely prevalent back here in Ecosse — and I don't have to stand in front of huge ranges of bonnes vins, trying to decide which of the 300 or so different varieties from the new world will satisfy my palette; just stick the nozzle into the bottle and pull the trigger.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
St Andrews Day – ce n’est pas Bastille Day
For those of you not in the know, Scotland entered a new phase in its long and often bloody history with the election in May 2007 of the first SNP (Scottish Nationalist) Government since devolution. A government that has as its aims independence for Scotland, thus restoring Scotland’s place in the World order and, presumably, opening up a new chapter in “the auld Alliance” between Scotland and France – suits me.
I’ll leave any general observations on the success or otherwise of this new administration to others but I do want to pick up on recent moves to establish St Andrews Day as Scotland’s National Day.
Scotland is something of an outsider in UK National Day stakes. The English celebrate St George’s Day, the Welsh have St David and the Irish (courtesy of Guinness I am advised) St Patrick. St Andrew has long been the Patron Saint of Scotland, but has never been given the honour of a public holiday like our neighbours in the Union.
The SNP Government has been seeking to right this wrong and to much literal and metaphorical flag waving announced various plans to give St Andrew his rightful place in the annual calendar, to sit alongside other impassioned celebrations of national identities like Independence Day in the USA and Bastille Day in France – our Auld Alliance comrades.
You may think so far that this sounds like an admirable plan, which when taken at face value it undoubtedly is. But scratch the surface and I fear that like many comparisons with Mediterranean life our Scottish approach lacks substance, value and credibility, which is why I continue to dream of a life of clement weather, plentiful and affordable food and wine, and a culture that better embraces the importance of family and community.
Unlike the approach to Bastille Day taken in France then, there is no sense that St Andrews Day is a festival for the people; for the population that makes Scotland what it is – flawed or otherwise. The sum total of the celebratory opportunities as far as I was able to tell included an open-air concert in Edinburgh and all Scotland’s public buildings and attractions being free of an entry fee for the day – which is fine if you have a car as most of them are in fairly rural locations. Even in the city though, hopeful visitors to Edinburgh Zoo, in the spirit of honouring Scotland and St Andrew, had to wait three hours in a four mile long tailback to get anywhere near the place.
To my – admittedly incomplete – knowledge then, there were few if any community celebrations. And this in a country of 5 million people. So whereas in France on Bastille Day every city, town, village and hamlet has a community-focussed celebration of the founding of the republic, where everyone has an opportunity to take part and enjoy the atmosphere, in much of Scotland this rather cold and damp Sunday 30 November, most of the population did their ironing for the week ahead and tuned into “I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here” as normal.
There was no public holiday, nor were there any fireworks, community dances, concerts, street parties, bull-running, cycle racing or wine tasting (apart from the usual selection of youths drinking Buckfast and Mad Dog around street corners). The day passed by almost unnoticed for the majority of the population. There was nothing in it that made me feel more Scottish. There was nothing to celebrate our turbulent past, nor set down a marker of optimism in the future. There was nothing to get me out to meet my immediate neighbours for a drink and there was nothing in the media to focus the population’s attention or secure their participation.
It seems to me that the Government’s aim for St Andrews Day is for it to be another tartan painted biscuit tin approach to marketing this ancient nation to the rest of the World, rather than using it as an opportunity to inject a bit of confidence back into a nation that has the worst health record in Europe; or to encourage a stronger sense of community responsibility for our environment and our citizens – many of whom live below the bread-line and are afflicted with jaw-dropping levels of substance misuse with little or no support.
Compared to Bastille Day, Scotland’s approach to establishing St Andrew’s Day as our national celebration has some way to go to put it politely. Give me the buzz of a village place in July any day – and that’s where you’ll find me getting my fix of community spirit, co-operation and fraternite. That’s where you’ll find me with my wife and two young children – in an atmosphere of acceptance, of celebration and pride in your country.
I can’t ever see it happening this way in Scotland, and not just because Scotland in November is a far cry from France in July; but because we have lost the very things that make Bastille Day a family oriented, community spirited festival.
St Andrews Day? Ce n’est pas Bastille Day.
I’ll leave any general observations on the success or otherwise of this new administration to others but I do want to pick up on recent moves to establish St Andrews Day as Scotland’s National Day.
Scotland is something of an outsider in UK National Day stakes. The English celebrate St George’s Day, the Welsh have St David and the Irish (courtesy of Guinness I am advised) St Patrick. St Andrew has long been the Patron Saint of Scotland, but has never been given the honour of a public holiday like our neighbours in the Union.
The SNP Government has been seeking to right this wrong and to much literal and metaphorical flag waving announced various plans to give St Andrew his rightful place in the annual calendar, to sit alongside other impassioned celebrations of national identities like Independence Day in the USA and Bastille Day in France – our Auld Alliance comrades.
You may think so far that this sounds like an admirable plan, which when taken at face value it undoubtedly is. But scratch the surface and I fear that like many comparisons with Mediterranean life our Scottish approach lacks substance, value and credibility, which is why I continue to dream of a life of clement weather, plentiful and affordable food and wine, and a culture that better embraces the importance of family and community.
Unlike the approach to Bastille Day taken in France then, there is no sense that St Andrews Day is a festival for the people; for the population that makes Scotland what it is – flawed or otherwise. The sum total of the celebratory opportunities as far as I was able to tell included an open-air concert in Edinburgh and all Scotland’s public buildings and attractions being free of an entry fee for the day – which is fine if you have a car as most of them are in fairly rural locations. Even in the city though, hopeful visitors to Edinburgh Zoo, in the spirit of honouring Scotland and St Andrew, had to wait three hours in a four mile long tailback to get anywhere near the place.
To my – admittedly incomplete – knowledge then, there were few if any community celebrations. And this in a country of 5 million people. So whereas in France on Bastille Day every city, town, village and hamlet has a community-focussed celebration of the founding of the republic, where everyone has an opportunity to take part and enjoy the atmosphere, in much of Scotland this rather cold and damp Sunday 30 November, most of the population did their ironing for the week ahead and tuned into “I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here” as normal.
There was no public holiday, nor were there any fireworks, community dances, concerts, street parties, bull-running, cycle racing or wine tasting (apart from the usual selection of youths drinking Buckfast and Mad Dog around street corners). The day passed by almost unnoticed for the majority of the population. There was nothing in it that made me feel more Scottish. There was nothing to celebrate our turbulent past, nor set down a marker of optimism in the future. There was nothing to get me out to meet my immediate neighbours for a drink and there was nothing in the media to focus the population’s attention or secure their participation.
It seems to me that the Government’s aim for St Andrews Day is for it to be another tartan painted biscuit tin approach to marketing this ancient nation to the rest of the World, rather than using it as an opportunity to inject a bit of confidence back into a nation that has the worst health record in Europe; or to encourage a stronger sense of community responsibility for our environment and our citizens – many of whom live below the bread-line and are afflicted with jaw-dropping levels of substance misuse with little or no support.
Compared to Bastille Day, Scotland’s approach to establishing St Andrew’s Day as our national celebration has some way to go to put it politely. Give me the buzz of a village place in July any day – and that’s where you’ll find me getting my fix of community spirit, co-operation and fraternite. That’s where you’ll find me with my wife and two young children – in an atmosphere of acceptance, of celebration and pride in your country.
I can’t ever see it happening this way in Scotland, and not just because Scotland in November is a far cry from France in July; but because we have lost the very things that make Bastille Day a family oriented, community spirited festival.
St Andrews Day? Ce n’est pas Bastille Day.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Less gloom please
It is that time of year with nights stretching out, days receding fast and the mercury falling when my thoughts turn more and more to what it must be like to live somewhere else. I confess I’ve not checked on the lighting up times in the South of France but with a ready supply of olives, wine and pastis I think I could get by a bit better than I do back here in Scotland.
The winter brings not just a chill that freezes the very marrow in my bones and makes my joints crack, but a certain gloom in my normally cheerful disposition. It is around this time of year that when I look out of the window in the late afternoon I say to myself, “Oh God, another month before the days start drawing out again”.
But it is January that brings me my deepest depression each year. For despite knowing that the days are slowly, surely drawing out by a full two minutes each day, January for some reason appears to me to be the darkest month of the year. It might be due to having had an extended break over the festive period, though you might think that would enhance my mood making me more capable of getting through the month; or it may be down to the fact that the return to work in January leaves me with the gaping chasm of a whole year stretching out in front – stuck in the same job and, worse, with no summer holiday booked.
Or – most likely – it might just be a pathetic, over-indulgent, self-pitying state of mind that I should shake off and shelf; for what can be more optimistic than a New Year. All the stresses and strains of the old year are behind you now. That gaping chasm of the New Year ahead is a blank canvas of opportunity. It is a foundation for personal and professional growth and maybe I should begin to recognise it for its potential, instead of complaining about just how dark it seems and wishing my life away for longer days and a milder climate.
Maybe I’ll take on the New Year with a new attitude this time round and see if it makes any difference. Maybe I’ll spend the holidays thinking long and hard about where I want to be and what I want to do during 2009, and perhaps when I sit down at my desk in early January it will be with a smile on my face because I will know that something great, and in my control, is just around the corner.
Maybe I’ll get to France – even if it’s just for a fortnight in July.
The winter brings not just a chill that freezes the very marrow in my bones and makes my joints crack, but a certain gloom in my normally cheerful disposition. It is around this time of year that when I look out of the window in the late afternoon I say to myself, “Oh God, another month before the days start drawing out again”.
But it is January that brings me my deepest depression each year. For despite knowing that the days are slowly, surely drawing out by a full two minutes each day, January for some reason appears to me to be the darkest month of the year. It might be due to having had an extended break over the festive period, though you might think that would enhance my mood making me more capable of getting through the month; or it may be down to the fact that the return to work in January leaves me with the gaping chasm of a whole year stretching out in front – stuck in the same job and, worse, with no summer holiday booked.
Or – most likely – it might just be a pathetic, over-indulgent, self-pitying state of mind that I should shake off and shelf; for what can be more optimistic than a New Year. All the stresses and strains of the old year are behind you now. That gaping chasm of the New Year ahead is a blank canvas of opportunity. It is a foundation for personal and professional growth and maybe I should begin to recognise it for its potential, instead of complaining about just how dark it seems and wishing my life away for longer days and a milder climate.
Maybe I’ll take on the New Year with a new attitude this time round and see if it makes any difference. Maybe I’ll spend the holidays thinking long and hard about where I want to be and what I want to do during 2009, and perhaps when I sit down at my desk in early January it will be with a smile on my face because I will know that something great, and in my control, is just around the corner.
Maybe I’ll get to France – even if it’s just for a fortnight in July.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Please and thank you
Although my recurring theme will be clear to readers of this blog, to date my sojourns have been limited to the family two weeks holiday a year. But even that limited exposure I have found is sufficient to expose the yawning gap in the standard of living, and just the approach to life, between us Scots and the provincial French.
Let me turn to service, manners and general politesse as the theme for this week’s column. I am sure I am not alone in remembering days gone by when, like the meadow pipit, politeness and manners were routine. People in shops smiled at you, they said hello, please and thank you. Consumers not only expected good service but members of what we now call the service industry also expected to give good service.
In France, politeness is embedded in the very language they speak. You are greeted as Monsieur/Madame in pretty much any shop you go into. People say good morning, good afternoon and wish you a good day. They use the polite form – vous – as a matter of routine, and it is indeed simply the rule. And even French builders, when they are providing excuses for why that wall is still only half finished, will take a full morning to come round to your place and sit down over a glass of wine to explain why this is so; all with that Gallic shrug that says – I sympathise and I really can’t do anything about it but it’s no reason for us to fall out is it?
When the decline in the UK set in I don’t know, but set in it undoubtedly has. It seems to me that every transaction is a favour to the consumer these days. Many shop assistants for example – not all admittedly, but a handsome proportion – do appear to have a problem with the basic description of the job itself. That somehow they are above the demands of welcoming paying customers, being polite, smiling and wishing us well on our way. I swear I have had transactions in shops when not a word has passed the lips of the assistant.
“Hang on – don’t I pay your wages”, I want to scream. But I don’t of course. I take my change, and in that manner of people who remember what it used to be like, say a clear, “thanks very much”, while engaging them in the kind of direct eye contact they’ve probably only experienced in school. They in return are too busy texting their pals under the counter to notice.
But High Street retailers are not the only place where service with a smile has long been forgotten. I recently had occasion to buy new carpets for our house. Quite a lot of new carpet actually and you’d think that a not inconsiderable order might bring out the best in people in the current financial environment.
In fairness the salesman who took our order was courteous and helpful, but thereafter our experience went the same way as our old carpets which were cut up into small pieces and taken to the dump.
Firstly an estimator “I’ve been doing this for thirty years, don’t you worry dear (he was speaking to my wife)” assured us that despite ours being an old Victorian pile, hardboard would more than adequately do the job of levelling the floor; so when the first carpet was laid and the resulting undulating landscape of 80/20 wool twist clearly not up to scratch, the fitters observed that we should have ordered plywood instead – all further progress was then halted as we got back onto our carpet pals.
When the same estimator returned to look at the hardboard effect – “I’ve been doing this for thirty years and I’ve never known a case where hardboard hasn’t done the job” – he grudgingly admitted that it didn’t look very good then refused point blank to answer any further questions as he had to “speak to the boss”.
So the saga continued by phone when our friend the estimator – “I’ve been doing this for thirty years and I still don’t know what I’m doing” – called back with an additional cost to lay plywood that would have in its own right saved HBOS from Lloyds TSB, revived the housing market and allowed the Scottish Government to abandon the council tax right away. But answering questions about how this cost was made up was not in our man’s repertoire for he again went to the most extraordinary lengths to avoid discussing anything material about our order.
At the end of the day we got our carpets laid. The man with the plywood was of course a different man from the one that laid the carpet. He took one look at the boards and said he lays ply all the time on floors like that. I won’t repeat what he said about the estimator, although apparently he’s been like that for thirty years.
So where does this leave the consumer, whether you are buying a newspaper or a carpet. Are sales assistants so de-motivated that they can’t even be bothered to offer the most basic kindnesses? Do retail managers not care about how this looks to customers? How hard is it to actually say please and thank you (I should say at this late juncture that many customers ought to consider this question too)? And how much easier all our lives would be if things went right the first time; why should we all be made to put more effort into recovering from a situation that should not have arisen in the first place?
So back to France. Give me Monsieur and a bon journee any day. Give me a a “C’est moi qui vous remercie” and let s all get tiled floors so we never have to buy carpets again.
Let me turn to service, manners and general politesse as the theme for this week’s column. I am sure I am not alone in remembering days gone by when, like the meadow pipit, politeness and manners were routine. People in shops smiled at you, they said hello, please and thank you. Consumers not only expected good service but members of what we now call the service industry also expected to give good service.
In France, politeness is embedded in the very language they speak. You are greeted as Monsieur/Madame in pretty much any shop you go into. People say good morning, good afternoon and wish you a good day. They use the polite form – vous – as a matter of routine, and it is indeed simply the rule. And even French builders, when they are providing excuses for why that wall is still only half finished, will take a full morning to come round to your place and sit down over a glass of wine to explain why this is so; all with that Gallic shrug that says – I sympathise and I really can’t do anything about it but it’s no reason for us to fall out is it?
When the decline in the UK set in I don’t know, but set in it undoubtedly has. It seems to me that every transaction is a favour to the consumer these days. Many shop assistants for example – not all admittedly, but a handsome proportion – do appear to have a problem with the basic description of the job itself. That somehow they are above the demands of welcoming paying customers, being polite, smiling and wishing us well on our way. I swear I have had transactions in shops when not a word has passed the lips of the assistant.
“Hang on – don’t I pay your wages”, I want to scream. But I don’t of course. I take my change, and in that manner of people who remember what it used to be like, say a clear, “thanks very much”, while engaging them in the kind of direct eye contact they’ve probably only experienced in school. They in return are too busy texting their pals under the counter to notice.
But High Street retailers are not the only place where service with a smile has long been forgotten. I recently had occasion to buy new carpets for our house. Quite a lot of new carpet actually and you’d think that a not inconsiderable order might bring out the best in people in the current financial environment.
In fairness the salesman who took our order was courteous and helpful, but thereafter our experience went the same way as our old carpets which were cut up into small pieces and taken to the dump.
Firstly an estimator “I’ve been doing this for thirty years, don’t you worry dear (he was speaking to my wife)” assured us that despite ours being an old Victorian pile, hardboard would more than adequately do the job of levelling the floor; so when the first carpet was laid and the resulting undulating landscape of 80/20 wool twist clearly not up to scratch, the fitters observed that we should have ordered plywood instead – all further progress was then halted as we got back onto our carpet pals.
When the same estimator returned to look at the hardboard effect – “I’ve been doing this for thirty years and I’ve never known a case where hardboard hasn’t done the job” – he grudgingly admitted that it didn’t look very good then refused point blank to answer any further questions as he had to “speak to the boss”.
So the saga continued by phone when our friend the estimator – “I’ve been doing this for thirty years and I still don’t know what I’m doing” – called back with an additional cost to lay plywood that would have in its own right saved HBOS from Lloyds TSB, revived the housing market and allowed the Scottish Government to abandon the council tax right away. But answering questions about how this cost was made up was not in our man’s repertoire for he again went to the most extraordinary lengths to avoid discussing anything material about our order.
At the end of the day we got our carpets laid. The man with the plywood was of course a different man from the one that laid the carpet. He took one look at the boards and said he lays ply all the time on floors like that. I won’t repeat what he said about the estimator, although apparently he’s been like that for thirty years.
So where does this leave the consumer, whether you are buying a newspaper or a carpet. Are sales assistants so de-motivated that they can’t even be bothered to offer the most basic kindnesses? Do retail managers not care about how this looks to customers? How hard is it to actually say please and thank you (I should say at this late juncture that many customers ought to consider this question too)? And how much easier all our lives would be if things went right the first time; why should we all be made to put more effort into recovering from a situation that should not have arisen in the first place?
So back to France. Give me Monsieur and a bon journee any day. Give me a a “C’est moi qui vous remercie” and let s all get tiled floors so we never have to buy carpets again.
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