The other day my wife sent me to buy a pot of paint from a little local DIY shop for a flat she is refurbishing. The two assistants are leaders in customer service, particularly in the area of unfriendly service. There’s no segment of the population they can’t be rude to. So I was surprised to be addressed by the smaller of the two.
“Yes”, I answered.
“My dad died of it a few years ago” he said helpfully. Following with the equally useful statement: “he was the youngest person in Britain to catch it”.
“How old was he when he was diagnosed?” I asked.
“Seventeen and three-quarters” was his answer.
The other man serving had now captured a 1 litre tin of the required shade of paint and was clearly anxious to join the conversation and asked me to “show us your shake then”. I explained that “you can’t turn it on and off. It comes and goes of its own accord”. This seemed to satisfy the taller man.
“Must be hard work painting the fancy bits, corners and lights, what with the screaming abdabs and all that” remarked the other man.
“Come back and let us know how you get on with the corners” said the smaller of the two. “We’ve got disabled parking”.
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