Saturday, March 13, 2004

East Coast, West Coast

The quiet guy at the party. After you get to know me a little, I probably seem like a real loud-mouthed, chatty bastard who can never shut up. I'll interrupt you, try to talk over you, and sometimes just sit in a corner and mumble for the sheer pleasure of listening to myself talk. Read the whole article, it's fascinating. 9:22:52 PM

Showdown at the West Country Corral

Argh, they make me seethe with anger. Out here in sleepy Dorset people like to talk when they get to the front of the queue. I'm in the dentists, just waiting to pay for my check up (no problems), and there's this couple at the desk. El Bandito: He's tall, skinny, grey-haired and still retaining a moustache from the seventies. I guess that's when his fashion sense ossified. Roots: She's short, dumpy with dyed black hair and some reddish roots coming through. My usual dentist, the excellent Dr Mark Brown, has broken his hip, so there's been some cancelling and rebooking of appointments over the last couple of months. This couple want to talk about the whole business, at length, while I'm waiting behind them. I scan a few pages of my paper. They're still talking. I read an article. They're still talking. I flip through the Save&Spend section, an oxymoron if ever there was one. They're still fuckin' talking! Ten bloody minutes. "Can I just..." I start to say, holding my notes out to the receptionist, "oh, no I can't, I have to pay." I can't get away with just dropping the notes off and making an appointment on the phone. "Won't be a moment." she says. "Are you in a hurry?" asks Roots. "No," I reply, "I've just got the rest of my life that I'd like to be getting on with. How long is this going to go on for?" "I'm going as fast as I can," says the receptionist, who has the air of one who is only tenuously engaged with reality; standard behaviour for till jockey's down here in the West Country. "Would you like to have a seat over there?" says Roots. "No I wouldn't." "Well, would you like to move away from me. Your looming there is making me uncomfortable." "No, I'll just wait right here where I've been waiting for the last ten minutes." El Bandito steps up to bat. [Queue Morriconi: Ayi, ayi, ayiiii, wah, wah, wahhhh] "Go on, move over there away from us." [sound effect: rattle snake] "No, I'll wait just exactly right here, where you've been keeping me for the last ten minutes." El Bandito chickens out. The slow West Country dialogue disappears and, lo and behold, they actually complete their transaction in under twenty minutes. El Bandito, bless him, says, "Enjoy the rest of your life," as they head out the door. "Thanks, I will." I step up to the till. Payment made, next appointment booked, two minutes. I'm out the door, across the road and stepping up to my car when I see Roots and El Bandito just starting up their's in the car park. I can settle up and walk to my car in the time that it takes them just to walk to their car. The worst of it is that they see having a nice little chat at the expense of everyone else in a queue as perfectly reasonable behaviour. If you show any signs of wanting to get a bloody move on then you're some kind of deviant. Welcome to the West Country. 11:13:17 AM