I went to town today to post some items. We’re in one of those towns where the Post Office has taken a leaf out of the Police Service’s books & closed down the local post office, much like we’ve closed all the police stations. This, like the police, is done to improve the service to the public. I’m not sure on what planet the people who say this live on but clearly it’s not Planet Earth.
Instead of a largish post office with about 8 counters & maybe 5 or six staff we not have a small counter with 3 counters & between 1 & 3 staff, despite the fact that in the last few years we have a couple of large new estates around the edge of town which has attracted several thousand new residents. It’s an improvement, remember?
So I walked in & took my place in the usual queue, pleased to see there were 3 staff in there. I’m not sure who employs these staff because they’re not the same people who worked in the Post Office, so I assume they are privately employed & the Post Office sacked everyone in the older operation. Wherever they came from it wasn’t the local branch of The Happy Clan. All three of them looked like they’d just been told their pay rise had been cancelled.
I try to be cheery when I’m in the shops. I’m usually in a good mood anyway as I love spending money & I always like to leave a little smile if I can, even f it means walking around town with my flies open (which I did last week).
So I’m standing in the queue checking out the staff. The bloke who looks like he should have retired is busy dealing with a woman sending a parcel who wants to know the ins & outs of a cat’s arse on every conceivable method of getting her box of tatt to Blackpool, she’s already been there 9 minutes & there’s no sign of her completing. So I’m unlikely to be served by him. That leaves the black girl who looks like her cat just died or the gum-chewing-blond who appears to be on a day release from Cell Block H.
I get the black girl who, on seeing that I have 4 items to post rather than just wanting to buy 1 stamp, appears to have been told on an invisible earpiece that not only has her cat died but the body has been stolen by the local gang of feline-necrophiliacs.
"Hello", I smile, she grunts & indicates the scales to the side of the counter. I place the first item on. "Second class please", I make sure the inflection in my voice rises to show I’m friendly & approachable. She grunts something, I don’t know what. It just gets worse so I give in & shut up. She doesn’t reply when I wish her a cheery goodbye.
It appears that things can be worse elsewhere, and I thought I was pissed off in my job.