Nigel works on the cash desk at Myers, Melbourne’s biggest department store. We’re not exactly on first name terms but he was wearing a nametag and that gave the game away. He sold me 300 dollars worth of shirts without so much as a hello or thank you. The most interaction he could muster was a sharp intake of breath and a condemning sigh when I put my credit card into his gizmo with the chip facing the wrong way.
I was my normal subservient self and muttered “thank you” as I slunk towards the exit. I’ve always been nervous in shops. I think it goes back to the time I was working in an accountancy office at the age of 18. One of our clients owned a fashion shop and suspected one of his staff was stealing. I was given an undercover role to try and flush him out. My task was to buy something and then see what he did with the cash. Did he ring it up on the register or just open the till and give me change?
Needless to say, life in an accountancy office is not always filled with such adrenalin-fuelled work and I took on the assignment willingly. On the way to the shop I rehearsed my lines, trying to plan a plot line that would ensure that I didn’t go straight for the kill. My strategy was to check out a few items before casually asking him for a jumper. I entered the shop whistling a jaunty tune. The suspect was behind the counter and I could feel him staring at me as I tried to casually peruse the shirt rack.
I felt like the guilty party in the shop and cancelled my original plan and figured I’d get things over with as quickly as possible. I ambled up to the counter and in a croaky voice that wasn’t at all part of my rehearsal I asked what they had in the way of winter sweaters. He looked at me as though I was an idiot and explained that as we were in the middle of spring, they weren’t exactly stocking winter clothes.
A look of terror shot across my face as I contemplated the prospect of returning to base and having to report an aborted mission. “Any chance I could get a pair of trousers instead?” I asked. By the look he gave me, I knew I’d been rumbled. From that point on he did everything by the book including a knowing wink when he told me to hold on to the receipt.
I returned to work embarrassed and was put off clothes shopping for life. When I am forced to buy something I tend to pick the first non-hideous thing I see and race to the counter. I never try things on and have a cupboard full of shirts that are too tight and trousers that are a little short. I keep the shirts because I kid myself that I might actually lose weight one day but I’m not sure why I keep the trousers. Perhaps I believe that old age might bring some shrinkage.
Charlie Brooker recently penned a witty article in The Guardian on the treatment of waiters and retail staff. His point was that many people treat these staff with contempt. I think the opposite applies. Go to a clothes shop and you are made to feel like a gap-toothed yokel whose fashion sense comes from Albania circa 1977. Try and buy a computer or one of those Apple products that are taking over the world and you’ll be met with the smug tones of an over educated shop assistant who wants to prove your stupidity to justify his own under employment.
The worst staff you will meet are in restaurants and cafes. Melbourne is famous for it’s culinary culture and I eat out now about as often as I used to go to the pub in Ireland. It has the same net effect on my tummy size but at least in Ireland you are generally met with friendliness in pubs. Café staff here seem to have graduated from the College of non-hospitality and surliness. Equal employment law also seems to not apply in this sector. There is a diverse range of people working in restaurants, just not in any one place. Some cafes are staffed entirely by twenty something male metrosexuals with ‘too cool for school’ expressions while others are staffed by Scandinavian looking teenage girls who look permanently bored or over worked.
It seems that the owner of every eating establishment is looking for a distinct style and the attitude and demeanour of their waiters is the best way of portraying this. It’s just a shame that none of them have thought about trying a friendly theme where people might actually smile at you when you order you’re over priced and under caffeinated latte.
Saturday mornings are the worst time for service. The whole of Melbourne seems to go out for breakfast on that day and most of the good cafes are busy from 8am onwards. They’ll wedge you into a shared table with a couple of mothers with toddlers and dump a bottle of water and two glasses in front of you. If you’re lucky they’ll come back in 30 minutes with a look of shock on their face when you say you might actually like to order some food.
Their body language screams that they would rather be anywhere else in the world than waiting for you to make your pathetic order. They don’t bother telling you which menu options are sold out (which by the time I get there at 11am is pretty much everything). They prefer to let you order first so they can enjoy telling you that you can’t have it.
I generally leave full but emotionally beaten down, with no positive memories of the retail trade except a free pair of trousers from that undercover mission. They are a little short, but maybe one day I’ll grow into them.
No comments:
Post a Comment