I’m afraid this is one big moan.
Friday. It was not a good day. I had to take my car for its MOT. After an hour, someone came and broke the bad news. ‘It has failed. The fuel hose is leaking, the exhaust is leaking, the brake pads need replacing and one tyre has a bulge.’ I spent £4,000 on it, Christmas 2024, and have had two new tyres fitted since. It’s only worth about a grand, if that, given Pissy Missy on the back seat, it has 120,000 miles on the clock and is 20 years old.
‘OK, can I book it in to be investigated, get a price?’
‘We don’t have space for it. And we don’t repair engines. It’s not legal for you to drive it.’
‘But I have to drive to the horses twice a day! Do you have a courtesy car?’
‘No, and I have to stress, you can’t leave your vehicle here.’ (There must have been hundreds of vehicles outside.)
It’s a shame I ejected Him early, as at least he had a car I could have borrowed (Nic, having now been diagnosed with a torn rotator cuff and on a waiting list for surgery, has a car but it, too, needs thousands of pounds of repairs and is off the road). But He had been so negative, I simply couldn’t stand him another second. When I told him there was a mini fridge, tea and coffee in his room he had replied, ‘I don’t drink liquids first thing.’ How about: ‘How thoughtful, thank you’? And, when I asked why he was using my bathroom, said – bear in mind this was barely four hours into Day One! – ‘If I can’t use the bottom washer [bidet], I’m leaving.’ Does he say that to his hippy friends he goes to stay with?
I don’t recall a bottom washer in the many Pig hotels we stayed in, or Lime Wood, or The Hospital Club, or Soho House, or the villa in St Tropez, or the five-star in Marrakech (the location for the first season of The Night Manager, just gorgeous and they’d cleaned up all the blood), or Albion House in Ramsgate, or the loos at the River Cafe, Locanda Locatelli, Dinner by Heston Blumenthal and on and on. He didn’t storm out of that little lot, did he? And he complained about buying groceries while staying with me to help with Mini: just add up what entertaining you, keeping you happy, cost me.
And don’t talk to me about shop assistants! In my local ‘country’ store (it’s supposed to be for animal lovers while selling fur, bullets and dreadful fake udders for poor stolen calves to suckle on), somewhere I have been countless times, the young girl behind the counter did not look up, but merely said, ‘Membership?’
I’m afraid I cracked. ‘You must have asked me that 100 times. How about for a change you try saying, “Hello!” or “Good morning!’’?’
She looked as though she was about to burst into tears, didn’t answer but said to a colleague, ‘Can you serve this customer?’ and disappeared. Why don’t these companies teach their staff some manners? To find a smidgeon of joy in actually having a job?
Don’t even get me started on the Co-op. The huge grumpy man on the till overcharged me by £2 and when I pointed this out, he served everyone else in the queue without apologising or even looking up. He eventually slammed two pound coins on the till. I took a photo of his name tag. Lidl, can you believe it, is worse. The stupid self-service till kept being unable to scan, and the supervisor who came over said, ‘You need to learn how to use them.’ Me: ‘OK, in that case, can you write an award-winning column in a national paper by 4pm then 2,400 words overnight for the US? No, didn’t think so.’ It’s no wonder people shoplift: jail seems welcome compared to dealing with this lot.
Or when I went with a friend to give her a second opinion on a farm for sale. We couldn’t find it so I called the estate agent. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Five other people managed to find it. Have you heard of What Three Words?’
God, I hate posh t**ts.
Me: ‘Have you heard of erecting a For Sale sign at the end of the track?’
And what about the nearby ‘restaurant’ (I doubt it even has a kitchen) where someone gives you a heart attack by barking, ‘Any ALLERGIES?’ and expects you to order at the bar while they slouch around doing nothing?
Or my local, quite artisanal wine shop where, when I said the Portuguese sparkling white was OK, a bit flat but really hard to uncork, a Hooray mansplained, ‘You have to twist the bottle not the cork.’ I know!! (said in a Monica voice). I told him he should have: ‘It’s not that nice, but at least you’ll drink less’ as his new marketing push.
Yet another establishment I’m now barred from.
