Customer Service

                          

British customer service up until 1991, when the Davidson family came to Canada, followed a different paradigm from the rest of the world. It seemed when I was growing up in the UK that ‘the customer is always right’ was a rule more honoured in the breach than in the observance.  Everywhere else that I travelled those who served almost seemed to prostrate themselves before the prospective punter. Having lived in Canada and eventually going back to Britain for a visit after a number of years I was prepared for this aspect of the country to have changed for the better.

I was not wrong. Picking up a hire car at the airport, the smiling employees couldn’t do enough for us. So the first visit back bore out my theory. Then I went back on my own a couple of years later and found myself on the long car journey between London and Edinburgh. Feeling peckish I pulled off the motorway somewhere in the North East of England. I found a truck stop attached to a greasy spoon and licked my lips at the anticipated Full English breakfast. Being an unusual time of day, the café was deserted. There was nobody at the counter to take my order so I searched for a bell to press, There was none. I then shouted a friendly greeting which then reverberated to the sound of some metal utensils being dropped. Eventually from the back emerged a bearded, balding gentleman, wiping his hands on his stained apron. He had obviously failed in the battle against rotundity, in fact the awning over his playground suggested that he ate too many of his own fry ups. It would not have been a surprise if he believed that cholesterol was a silly modern invention and that lettuce was for rabbits. He was not overly happy to have his peace disturbed by a customer. How dare I encroach on his existence.

“Yes, what is it?” Shaking his head, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, looking at me like I was something smelly on the sole of his shoe.

I wish, at that moment, that I had gone into full ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ mode. I wish that my smile had beamed, I had enthused about the beauty of the day,  regaled him with the spectacular scenes on my drive northwards, slapped him endearingly on the back, shook him by his reluctant hand. Instead I shrunk into myself and asked ever so humbly if it was possible to have bacon, sausage, two fried eggs, no fried bread but a portion of black pudding and fried tomatoes.  My body language was one cringing apology for being there.

“Oh and maybe some toast,”  An apologetic afterthought.

He puffed out his cheeks, shook his head, put his eyes to the heavens and looked at me as if I was mad. He said nothing but disappeared into the back from whence I heard muttered swearing and emphatic clatter as he went about what I hoped was the preparation of my meal. He had never confirmed that he was going to cook it. I sat down and waited, regretting that I had not ordered a pot of tea but realising that it was too late now.

The door opened and in came a florid, friendly, middle aged woman. She smiled at me and commented on the weather, asked if I had come far and went behind the counter where she proceeded to empty the shopping bag of the groceries she had bought. Having put everything in its place she said,

“Now then, Pet, what can I get thee?”

I smiled back at her.

“A pot of tea would be nice.”

“Anything to eat?”

“Already ordered”.

She looked puzzled as if to say that that could not be possible given that she had popped out and her old man never appeared from the back. She had to step into the kitchen to find out what I had ordered so that she could charge me.  Loud crashes, angry mutterings and she was back at the till with her open-hearted friendly smile. She rung it up.

“Five pounds 50 pence, Pet.”

I remember that the food was delicious.  The rudeness, however, was even more tasty and, it has to be said, strangely reassuring.

I could bore you further, Dear Reader, with the story of the cuppa mocha which came with a Cadbury’s flake which the teenage assistant suddenly picked up and dunked into the hot drink as she was passing it to me. Or there was the booking of the bus trip from Lincoln to Glasgow from the woman behind the counter who shook her head at the difficulty of booking such an unusual journey.

“It’ll take some time,” She responded, hoping that Malcolm and I would give up on the idea. At which point, Malcolm opened up his newspaper, spread it out on the counter, seemingly oblivious to the line up behind. The National Bus Company employee then had no alternative but to huff her annoyance, turn on her heel and complete the booking. This took her all of five minutes.

I could demand more of your valuable time by relating the tale of Rose and John who found their lovely room on the south coast of England thoughtfully provided with all the accessories for  brewing tea and coffee except for cups. They went to the front desk and asked the owner if they could have a couple.

‘What? Cups? You want cups??!!”

Having lived for many years in Canada, they did not back down.  Rose and John were given their cups with the added bonus of irritated annoyance.

So, having lived in Vancouver for over 30 years now, I need to tell you, friends, that I really do appreciate the effusive efforts I receive here to please me when I purchase a chocolate bar at the Dollar store. But it has to be said that there are no stories attached to good service . For that, Dear Reader, one has to return to ‘Blighty’. There is nothing quite like a bit of honest to goodness offensiveness from a shop assistant to bring a smile and a chuckle to Davidson. It makes me feel at home.

Thanks for reading.