do you open so late on Sundays?
Me: We open at nine a.m., sir, and usually no one even comes in until ten, anyway.
Customer: Well, we were banging on the door for you to open, and you didn’t! We have to work in the MEDIA, we NEED you to be open for us! Plus, it’s really expensive, even with the discount you give us, so you should at least be open on time.
Me: We are open ON TIME, just the time that is dictated to us by our superiors.
Customer: Well, I’m going to phone your head office about this!
Firstly, this is a lie. Unless he was banging on the door at seven in the morning before any of the staff were even there – in which case, I must reiterate: get a life. Get a sense of adventure and invest in a cafetiere. Get a dog or something that can be forced to love you, regardless of what a horrible and simply stuck-up-media-whore-type person you are.
Why should we open earlier for you, when you are one person? One little person who occasionally comes in here, moans about the price, abuses the staff and generally treats everyone like they’re below you, just because you’re working on the latest series of Big Brother or whatever? Which, by the way, is now on Channel Five. So it’s basically gone to die, as I hope you do.
Other examples of closing-time fuckwittery?
Me: Sorry, we’re closing now, I really need you guys to drink up.
Customers: Well, if we leave, you won’t have any customers.
Yes. That’s the point. Fuck off.
Me: Sorry, we close in a few minutes.
Customers: That’s bloody outrageous. Screw you. *storms off*
Okay. Sure. Thanks for that customer input.
Me: Hi guys! Just to let you know, we’re closing in five minutes.
Customer: Well, we’re meeting someone here in twenty minutes.
Me: Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to meet them outside.
Customer: It’s not appropriate to meet people on the street. You can just stay open.
Oh, I’m so glad that forcing a company to stay open just for you is within accepted limits of propriety.
People suck. Here endeth the rant.
*****
Imogen took a deep breath and pressed ‘publish’. It was the first time she’d written since she moved to London. It was therapy. She was going to use all those horrible little people, force them into fiction, make people laugh. She was going to join the masses and become a blogger, use it for practice, get inspired. Connect to every twenty-something working a recession job and trying to make it in the big bad city. She was going to be a writer, no matter what. She was going to write something real.
Emanuel tilted his head to the side, lips pursed as he surveyed her.
‘Something is different,’ he said with suspicion.
‘I trimmed my hair with nail scissors. It was a terrible decision, I know.’ Imogen rolled her eyes and focused on steaming the milk to exactly 94 degrees, or else the customer who was due to arrive in exactly forty-five seconds would be disappointed. Or royally pissed off and demand not only a remade drink but a freebie voucher. She could not afford to cost the store any more freebies this month. There was a chart and everything.
Emanuel shook his head. ‘No, that’s not it. It’s something on your face.’
Imogen looked at him in panic. ‘What is it? Get it off! I can’t stop the steamer!’
Emanuel moved closer, his dark eyes and little moustache twitching as he stared at her face. ‘It’s something in the mouth area, it’s like … the sides are moving upwards? Almost like … what do they call it? A … smile?’
Emanuel grinned and walked off.
‘You tosser!’ Imogen laughed. ‘I’m allowed to smile!’
‘Yes,’ he called back as he stacked sugar packets in the empty store, ‘but usually it’s more of a resting bitch face situation. Not a “quietly satisfied” look. Did Declan take you out?’
Imogen shook her head, wondering why she could feel her cheeks warm in a blush even though it had nothing to do with the stubbly Irishman.
‘No, this is purely creative fulfilment, I promise.’
‘Oh, what a shame.’ Emanuel pouted and punched in the order for a 94-degrees triple-shot soya white mocha with a half pump of caramel. The man in the Savile Row suit nodded in satisfaction, pausing to hold the takeaway cup for a moment, feeling the warmth in his hand. Then he nodded once more and was gone. The same, every time. Even when he complained, she wasn’t sure he spoke. He just looked scarily disappointed in her as a person and shook his head slowly until she panicked. The Suit. With the really girly drink. She should make a note of that.
‘Well, that’s the only sort of fulfilment I’m interested in. I’m actually happy, I think.’
Agnes marched out, tying on her brown apron, her face unimpressed. ‘Yes, yes, we all care deeply for your health and happiness. Go and count your till.’
Imogen raised an eyebrow. ‘How much bullshit do I get if I call her a dictator?’
‘You get a pat on the head and gold star for understanding how chain of command works. Count your till,’ Agnes said, unfazed.
The rest of the day passed quickly, a flurry of coffee machine whirring, snippets of conversations and the overwhelming smell of mocha sauce, because everything was suddenly a story. Every complaint, every whinge, every ridiculous request was fodder. They were insights, hilarious and so nutty that someone else would get enjoyment out of them.
‘What is happening here?’ Emanuel said later that day, staring in dismay at the till.
‘What? What’s wrong?’ Agnes marched over to inspect, a dusting of whipped cream around her mouth.
Emanuel shrugged. ‘We’re just out of till receipt paper, it’s not a problem.’
‘Don’t worry me like that!’ Agnes filled another cup with a swirl of whipped cream, finishing with a flourish, and marched out to the back room again.
‘Imogen, any idea why we’d be out of receipt paper when I just filled the roll this morning?’ Emanuel raised an eyebrow. ‘Possibly to do with how inflated the pockets of your apron seem?’
Imogen put her hands in her pockets, crumpling the small bits of paper under scrunched fists.
