It’s the snotty young madams who get to me. You know the ones I mean: the sales assistants who see you coming their way and start filing their nails.
It isn’t that I take it personally. I haven’t got close enough for them to judge me on a one-to-one basis before they engross themselves in their grooming and tweaking, so it’s not me per se. It’s just that I represent potential boredom – a lesser being – a person not worthy of their attention. Fair enough. I don’t particularly care. But what they represent to me is arrogance, for which my tolerance level pretty much zero.
Being a sales assistant (yes, been there done that in my chequered career) isn’t necessarily the most ego-boosting job in the world. You’re the one they kick when they can’t find the cat. They knock on the door after you’ve closed, assuming you don’t have a life of your own. They ask the impossible, and report you to the boss if they don’t get it yesterday. But like everything else, it is what you make it. I’ve also had fascinating conversations with the most unlikely customers, learned a thousand things I wouldn’t otherwise have known, and had the satisfaction of being thanked profusely for a job well done. So I don’t think it’s unfair of me to be irritated by the nail-filers.
I learned from an early age that arrogance wasn’t acceptable under any circumstances. My dad was no slouch – pretty high-profile, in fact – and he reckoned he could always hear his mother saying, ‘Well don’t let it go to your head, you’re no better than anyone else’. And she was right.
So to all the nail-filers out there…
Get over yourself, sweetheart. You’re no more special than the rest of us. Just ruder.