Mrs Daily-Mail buys her morning coffee
In the lobby of the building where I work there is a little coffee and snack stall. It is usually run by a chap, but sometimes, like today, by an always polite but not overly confident Asian lady.
I ordered a small black coffee shortly after a middle-aged, well-dressed woman ordered a large latte. Despite the large latte being started first, not surprisingly my small black coffee had finished first, so the woman serving started to hand it to me. The following exchange then ensued:
'I think I ordered my coffee first.'
'Yes....'
'Excuse me, but I was first.'
'Yes, but...'
'Why are you serving them out of order?'
'I was...'
'In this country we have a long tradition of queuing and doing things in order, it's the way we do things here.'
'I...'
'I don't want to be waiting around while people who came after me get
served first... The usual man never serves people out of turn.'
By this time the latte had finished making itself and was given to the woman. By now it should have been pretty obvious that the only reason my coffee was given to me first was that it was finished first.
You might have thought the silly woman would apologise or at least shut up. The the server was obviously a more than little upset by the misunderstanding, but no...
'I don't want to make you feel bad. But these things are important...'
Then as she pushed two pound coins a crossed the counter,
'Now you have to give me twenty pence'.
Sadly I just stood there, I tried to bring words to mouth a couple of times, but couldn't think of anything. Afterwards I realised that a stern 'Shut up, you stupid, patronising cow.' was probably the most appropriate (well, actually, getting her in a half nelson, making her apologise and then shoving her coffee up her arse was the most appropriate (but sadly illegal) action), but I came over all British and did nothing except to try to apologise for the twat after she left. Bah!
Anyway that's quite enough moaning from me. I promise my next post will be one both joyous and uplifting.
7 answers on a postcard...:
So, my problem in not confronting twats is that I'm overcome with being british.
John Cleese would be proud.
I think a coffee enema would have been just the thing for her.
Bitch.
Jeepers. What a witch.
You could train Esme to projectile vomit on demand: she looks a smart baby, I'm sure she'd grasp it pretty quickly. You could strap her to your front, facing outwards, give her the secret signal and then adopt an "oh dear me I am terribly sorry, old crone, but it seems my baby has unfortunately coated your coat/bag/face in her sick." You could combine it with a smug eyebrow, simultaneously avoiding confrontation and giving the offender karmic comeuppance in one fell swoop.
It is at times like this that I realise how British I really am (despite having Americans for parents). I would have done exactly the same as you, even though one of my recent resolutions was to loudly challenge such arsewipe behaviour whenever it crossed my path.
Why? Why can't we do it?
Please Ian, Joyous and uplifting is not what i have come to expect from you. more bah humbug and an inability to do anything about the things that annoy you is why i read this blog. you are my barometer for all that is wrong with the world. if you stop now i may develop a PMA and then where would my therapist be.
I think I'd have gone for:
"Woman! Know your place."
in a very Mr Cholmondley-Warner voice. Her Daily Mail chin would have hit the ground and you could have made your escape (with your coffee).
And then found she was your new line manager :)
Excellent suggestions, urbancowgirl!
So, I've come in late on this, but anyone who has even the most rudimentary understanding of coffee culture would know that pooring black coffee out of a pot is a lot faster than brewing 2 shots of espresso and heating milk to 160 degrees when foam appears.
Dumb old stroppy cow.
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