You All Right There?

Southport’s Lord Street in the rain

Last week was less than successful. The previous week I reached a longlist in a short story competition and was elated. On Monday Wi-Fi became less Wifi and more Difi. At times I could connect laptop, phone or the iPad, sometimes a combination, mostly none of them. Occasionally I could get emails and maybe BBC Sounds but no websites. The providers tried to help but sadly it wasn’t their problem, so they arranged for BT Open Reach to come to see if it’s the connection or external factors. I wasn’t been able to join my writing group - London Writers Salon - for more than a few minutes at a time before being thrown out, (but maybe that was LWS’s choice!).

While assuring myself I was lucky to be on a long list, and that I couldn’t expect any more, I was hopping up-and-down waiting for the shortlist to be announced, but without wifi. So I took myself off to a café in order to retrieve emails unhindered. Why do we set such store by these things? When the news came through, and I had prepared myself for this, I hadn’t made the shortlist. Of course I hadn’t and I knew I should be grateful to have even been acknowledged on the long list, but instead I skulked back from the café and failed to find anything good about the day, especially as it was raining for the first time in weeks and the temperature had dropped dramatically. I had to find a jumper for the first time this autumn, not amused.

My better half offered a day out in Southport or Chester. I thought Chester would probably be the better option but we would’ve had to change trains and I wasn’t in the mood for faffing with platforms and stations, so opted, ungraciously, for Southport where my mum lived for a few years before her sudden death from a brain haemorrhage at the age 57. A stroll down memory lane I thought, might be just the thing I need.

As the Merseyrail train trundled towards Southport, it got colder, wetter and greyer. It was grim! Run-down out of season Victorian seaside towns should be avoided, especially when one is sulking, and Southport is definitely one to swerve. The streets were grey, the people were grey, and the famous glass canopies and arcades in Lord Street, the once attractive tourist draw, are now cracked and covered in vegetation, allowing the rain to pour down in rivers on those sheltering beneath. Where once there were posh shops and department stores, now there are empty windows or factory outlets. All very depressing. I went to look for the photographer’s studio in one of the arcades where my mum used to stroll every Saturday to thrill at the portrait of my little daughters which hung in his window for some months. It was empty.

Empty arcades that once were grand

We searched for a restaurant to have lunch in. What we found were burger bars, sandwich bars, snack bars, and seedy pubs, nowhere that was serving lunches. Maybe we were looking in the wrong place. Eventually, down a side alley that led to the prom, we saw a bistro. Imaginatively called The Hideaway; its windows were covered in fake ivy and more of the same draped the walls inside, hence The Hideaway.  The cave-like interior was cleverly achieved by only having one light in seven lit over the tables. The servers were a cheery pair and the food was OK. However, here I am, sliding in sideways with a mammoth moan about customer service in the UK. Fasten your seatbelts!

For some years now I have found the form of address received in shops, cafés, bars, anywhere there is an assistant is in situ to provide me with some form of service, unacceptable. What ever happened to ‘Good morning, can I help you?’ Today, if you’re lucky, you will get a casual ‘You all right there?’ As though either you’re an interloper or maybe look ill, or the assistant thinks you’re damaging the goods. What does it even mean? ‘You all right there?’ If I can be bothered, I say ‘yes I’m fine thanks,’ and wait for the follow-up. Sometimes it’s the same phrase again, other times it’s a bewildered stare and stalemate, until I give in because I don’t have the time or patience to persist.

In ‘French Children Don’t Throw Food,’ Pamela Druckerman explains that the French consider socialisation the most important thing they can do for their babies and young children. And at the (free) creches and the Ecole Maternele (school from 5 to 7), they are fed four course meals (yes even babies) and taught the importance of saying bonjour, s’il vous plait and merci, to relatives, elders and anyone they meet. They don’t learn to read until seven; they play games and say bonjour. When a person enters a bar or shop in France, they will usually nod and say a general bonjour to all present. It’s about acknowledging and showing respect for fellow human beings, an essential part of French culture.

So I wasn’t in the most forgiving of moods when going soggily into cafés and shops and I got grumpier every time I heard the detested phrase, partly because I know that behind that one will be the one I hate even more ‘no problem!’ ‘A latte please’ ‘No problem!’ ‘Can you show me where x is?’ ‘No problem!’ I KNOW it’s no problem, it’s your XXXXing job! Whatever happened to ‘certainly madam,’ or ‘my pleasure’. There is a certain bookshop café in Liverpool One, no names but there’s only one, where the barista says ‘no problem’ in varying tones in answer to every request made to him. I want to scream. Are they even given customer service training? On the one occasion I challenged this universal answer, when I took a garment with a fault back to a shop, I was able to say ‘but there is a problem, can’t you see it?’ I was met with a sullen stare.

In a restaurant, there’s a further opportunity for getting my back up. The server brings your meal and barely three minutes later they’re back to ask if the meal is satisfactory. That in itself is irritating when you have hardly had time to taste it, but what they actually say – everything-all-right-yeah? – almost all one word, as they brush past the table at speed, brooks no argument. Even if you wanted to tell them it was crap, you’d have to catch them first.

Maybe I’m just an old fogey, but I deplore the lack of human interaction. More often now a purchase can be transacted without any words passing between buyer and seller nor eye contact being made. Soulless, do young people really want to spend their days at work in such an unfulfilled state? Investing in proper training could instil pride in even the lowliest positions as it does in other countries, but it’s probably too late for the UK sadly. It’s not part of its contemporary culture. Perhaps it was in the days of 1950s deference, but we wouldn’t want to return to that. However a look across the Channel to observe ‘citoyen’ respect might be a start.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

I read

A Dance of Pride and Peril by Martin Lake. Set in Crete of 4,000 years ago it was about a young girl, Talita, who is sold as a slave to a man who owns bulls and trains bull leapers to entertain crowds. I had no idea this was a thing so found it very interesting.

I listened on Audible to

Mrs England by Stacey Halls. The world of the the nursery in 1904, and life as a Norland nanny caring for her charges and living with mill owners was beautifully portrayed, all the while building tension and carrying us up to the climax. So many secrets and I didn’t guess any of the major ones which was a real treat!

I’m watching

Boiling Point BBC1 and Iplayer. Brilliantly done. Doesn’t have the immediacy of the film but it takes a broader, deeper look at the lives of the staff.

Thanks for listening or reading, see you next month.