Oh my good God! Once could have been a mistake, then second was annoying, but the third time is going to make me completely stop going to a clothes shop to get a garment for a lady friend. You see, I asked for full details of a specific item to be written down, she didn’t want to initially, but I insisted because I am right. And now you have all you need, because you’ve prepared this like an SAS strike. This is so there will be no uncomfortable moments of being in a women’s department or shop, looking like an undie sniffer. Confidently, you walk up to the shop assistant with all the relevant details in your text, email or printed-out web page with a picture of the fucking thing on it. You ask her:

“Can I have the so-and-so in this size? Look there, I have even brought along the specific stock code to make sure that this is exactly what she wants.”

She looks at you, smiles and says:

“Yes of course, we have it in stock. But …”

What do you mean “But”? I did everything I could; I have the picture and everything!

“Which colour would you like it in?”

Oh fuck! And the assistant then presents you with every single colour of the spectrum, some of the hues only visible to women. You can’t tell the difference. And don’t even bother to try making the decision because you can visualise the disappointment in her face when you present her with it – as if to say how could you possibly think that this would be my colour, you don’t know me at all!

But all is not lost: thanks to the genius of modern technology you can call and find out what she wants. No fucking hope. It gets worse now. I call and ask her through gritted teeth.

“Hi, I’m here in the shop. What colour did you want that top in?”

“Ooh I don’t know, what have they got and what do you think?”

Fuck, fuck, fuckety, fucking motherfucker! On one occasion this conversation happened to me while I was on the other side of the Atlantic with about ten minutes to get to the airport. Tactfully, but in fact clumsily, you try and get a decision out of her.

“Hon, this really isn’t the time. Which one do you want?”

Well done son. Now you’ve fucked it.

“Look if it’s that much trouble, I’ll go and get it myself on Saturday.”

Arrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhhhh!

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I just needed to get that out, you know, like when you’re really desperate for  a wee. All the way home on the bus, I was thinking you self-righteous cow. I wouldn’t mind if I was a repeat offender, but this was the first (and now only) time that I forgotten to give that shitty token in. Bring back the card operated lockers  we used to have, the ones we liked remember, and none of this would have happened. Anyway I have one of those little pound replacement tokens that you use in supermarket trolleys now. That’ll show her.

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For a man short in stature and even shorter on temper it, always concerned me whether it was a good idea for his health to enter the service industry. My point is vindicated by this rant and his lack of patience with less the observant customers.  If you wish to witness him lose his rag first hand, get yourself along to the Town Mill Bakery. Then all you have to do is ask for marmalade with your toast  (expect some sort of grumbling response about there being no orange groves in Dorset) or the music to be turned down.  Ooh, a personal favourite of mine, ask for ketchup with anything. That really pisses him off.

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You know what’s like, you’ve bought this shiny new piece of kit, that does all the things you think it should, or have you been told that it does. And for the money you’ve paid you would it expect it to. When a problem arises you’re surprised, perturbed and once again, given the money you’ve paid, would expect a certain level of helpful after sales service. But no, you’re confronted with Simpsons’ Comic Book Guy levels of smart arsery about the lack of knowledge you displayed when first purchasing.

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