Grumpy single gal WLTM: an age appropriate man

JUDY JOHNSON

Every girl likes to be approached by a man on a night out, don’t they? Even if you’re not single, it’s probably nice to know you’ve still got it. If you are single, it’s exciting to meet someone, right?

What if that man is pushing 50 (or 60 but tried Botox), has a big enough beer gut that he can’t remember what his toes look like and yet still thinks he’s God’s gift to women? Thought so.

This is what happens to me on a regular basis. I am only 25; I don’t think it’s unreasonable to hope for men aged 30-ish and under to approach me instead of middle-aged balding ones who may or may not be having a mid life crisis. What’s even worse is that these ageing, leering, old-enough-to-be-a-granddad men are getting in the way of the good ones.

How do you like your toast in the morning?

ROSIE MCGEE

There’s a lot not to like about being in hospital. I can state this as an unequivocal fact as I recently had the pleasure of three long weeks held hostage in one. There isn’t enough time left between now and the eventual end of the world to detail each and every thing that annoyed me, every comment that irked and every slight to common sense and good manners I underwent. They were simply too numerous and too pestilent. Before long I accepted that if I was going to make it out alive I’d just have to shut down the grumpy part of my brain and accept it all or else I was in danger of having an aneurysm or, worse still, being more closely “monitored” than I already was.

So as I endured all the horrors of the ward I tried to remain upbeat about the fact that most people were under the delusion that in a hospital fabric has the same properties as brick and therefore pulling a curtain means that your conversation cannot be heard by those six feet from your bed. There are now people who I could convincingly impersonate based on the amount and depth of detailed, personal information I now know about them.

Time at the bar: how not to treat the regulars

NAOMI SAFFERY

Generally, I choose the house I live in based entirely on the local. In London we lived a few doors down from a boozer that served Pimm’s by the bucket load and knocked out a wonderful BBQ every summer. This was followed by the lovely ramshackle gastropub just around the corner from our house in Oxford; it served amazing mulled wine and I had a very happy winter indeed.

The village that we have moved to has a wonderful pub made of stone, with roaring log fires and wooden floorboards akimbo. It is suitably ‘ye olde worlde’ and I fell in love with it. I had visions of numerous hours spent sitting next to the fire with a good Merlot whilst chatting to villagers about badgers, hedgerows and cricket. That was until the landlord arrived.

Fight or flight

LAURA DEMETRIOU

Last year I had the unenviable task of being on a 16-hour flight to Thailand. While the cabin crew did their best to keep 400 passengers comfortable and entertained, flying in general is a horrible process (unless it’s the dream where you can fly above the clouds, of course).

Every flight I’ve been on, someone around me has managed to annoy me with inconsiderate behaviour. Being suspended thousands of feet in the air in a metal tube is never the nicest thought, but having to deal with annoying passengers is worse than the possibility of plummeting to the earth in a screaming panic.

So, I’ve decided to make a list of things NOT to do so you don’t annoy the fellow traveller who might be sitting behind, next or in front of you.

Oh, it's awfully taxing

JUDY JOHNSON

Self Assessment tax return. Four words that will send shivers down any freelancer’s spine, particularly around the Christmas period when we should be thinking about family, joy and cocktails but are instead plotting just how much longer we can put it off for, since the deadline is 31 January.

My mistake for the latest tax return was being a little cocky, thinking that actually, I had done one of these once before and it wasn’t too taxing, so why should this year be any different? In fact, I thought, it should be easy because up until April 2010 I was a full-time freelancer on a set wage. So, all I need is a few figures and hey presto! Tax return filed, Christmas parties here I come. But oh, no.

A plea to the man in the street: keep your opinions to yourself

ROSIE MCGEE

Lots of things about modern British society perplex me. The culture of insanely long pauses on reality TV shows, the fact people seem to actually like eating at Nando’s and jeggins are just a few. However, all of these merely intriguing phenomena pale into insignificance compared to the entirely baffling, widely held notion that it is entirely acceptable to shout at complete strangers in the street, or in some other totally unsolicited way comment on people you do not know as they go about their business.

I’m not talking about greetings, pleasantries and other totally innocuous comments in the vein of "good morning" or "beautiful weather we’re having". If anything I don’t think there is enough of that sort of nice, old fashioned chit chat. Instead, what I take issue with is people who deem it their God given right to pester unsuspecting members of the public with their inane drivel.

Stuffing your face on the bus? DON’T!

NAOMI SAFFERY

I have already written about my issue with bus drivers. But let me now turn my focus of derision to my fellow passengers. Up until a few weeks ago I only had minor complaints when it came to my brothers (and sisters) in arms. We were all in it together, battling our way to work; negotiating delays, rude drivers and the maniacal passenger who had us all staring determinedly into our laps.

But now all this has changed. The reason? The incessant need by a frighteningly large proportion of public transport-partaking society to eat their greasy, noisy and unnecessary food in front of others. I have been tipped over the edge by a particular incident that needs to be recounted in full for the enormity of the problem to be fully understood.

There’s more to Essex than vajazzles

LAURA DEMETRIOU

It’s back. You’ll either love it or hate it. No, I’m not talking about Marmite. I’m talking about the reality TV show The Only Way is Essex.

If you’ve not seen the show, it’s about a group of orange 20-somethings who live in Essex showing us what they do best. Namely, partying at Sugar Hut Village, applying vajazzles/pejazzles, dressing up in leopard print mini-dresses and saying ‘shuuuuup’. Basically it’s trash TV both at its very best and worst.

Leisurely lunches: the enemy of customer service?

ROSIE  MCGEE

You can hardly turn on the TV or open a newspaper without someone banging on about we’re losing the ‘work-life balance’. Apparently we work longer and harder than lots of our European neighbours getting fewer public holidays to boot. What with the added trauma of a recession causing people to fear for their jobs it’s easy to conjure up mental pictures of masses employees being chained to desks for anything up to the maximum 48 hours a week toiling ceaselessly in exchange for a few pennies to keep the bailiffs from the door.

As someone blissfully excused the horrors of working in an office I always have a great deal of sympathy for those who do. There’s lots about it to hate and everyone who endures it has their own personal favourite. Back in the days when I did have to, mine was always the totally unnecessary stress of trying to get anything done in your lunch hour. Seemingly innocuous tasks would turn into one of the labours of Hercules if you needed to perform them in that precious 58 minute window between a morning of drudgery and an afternoon of willing the clock forward.

What do you call someone subjected to bad jokes at inappropriate moments? Shermaine...

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

According to Shakespeare, all the world’s a stage, and the men and women merely players. It’s a fantastic line that I completely agree with. But where does it say that it’s a stage in a comedy club?

I love comedy and, contrary to having achieved Grumpy status years ago, it is quite easy to make me laugh. Whether it be a sit com or a stand-up comic, I’m usually game and can often be found cackling at the most childish of slapstick scenes. It’s my guilty pleasure. There are people who barely have to do anything to make me laugh—tears streaming, belly cramping guffaws—but it is always in the right context.

What I hate more than people who think they’re funny, are those that attempt to pedal their particular brand of humour when the occasion doesn’t call for it. I wonder whether the explosion of social networking and general electronic communication (grrr, text speak) has hindered people’s ability to read emotions and act accordingly.

The customer is always right- at least when allowed an opinion.

ALICE LINLEY-MUNRO

Why hello Mr PC World man who was steadfastly ignoring me until you realised I was female and had a low cut top on. Yes, you can indeed see part of my cleavage -*gasp*- and yes I know I am the most devastatingly gorgeous woman you’ve seen in a very long time but here’s the deal – you can be a supermodel like I am and still not be a complete moron when it comes to buying a new laptop. To be fair to you I did look a little bit blank when you started prattling on about graphics cards and one of the questions towards the bottom of my list was going to be ‘does it come in any other colours’ but I’m still not an eejit.

You didn’t even give me a chance to explain what I wanted before you started trying pigeonhole me as a customer and then attempted to baffle me with your superior computer geek prowess. I’ve never worked in a computer shop before but I would have thought that a great jumping off point with a customer would be to ask what they were looking for rather than leaping in and recommending a machine which was the polar opposite to what they wanted.

Service with a scowl

MADDIE YORK

I seem to enjoy making social interaction uncomfortable for myself. If there’s an altercation to be had with a stranger, I’ll wade right in, all uppity and crusading (see my disagreement on the P4 bus). Yes, where others keep their heads down, I put my foot down. And yesterday, in the supermarket – which I won’t name; they’re all much of a muchness – in the face of insurmountably appalling customer service, I did just that. And it was exhilaratingly awkward.

I was standing in the queue with my basket – weekend supplies: gin, lime x 2, tonic x 1, Saturday Times, multi-pack of fun-size Dairy Milk – casually observing the customer being served ahead of me. The checkout girl was bungling items through the scanner, not making the vaguest hint of eye contact with the lady customer, and carrying on a conversation with her mate on the next checkout – “You gettin’ your hair dyed tomorrow, yeah? Wicked innit. You goin’ out tonight? Innit, though” etc. – and chuckling away as if we customers were in the way of her social life. This went on for a few minutes, the poor customer looking offended and uncomfortable. I saw red; I could not let this pass.

Is a sense of entitlement killing off our manners?

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

As a Grumpy Young Woman, it would be so easy for me to complain about the distinct lack of manners that society seems to have suffered. When it comes to examples, I’m so spoilt for choice that I’d be here from now until Dooms Day. And I don’t have that kind of time.

Instead, I would have thought that considering the cause of the bad manners would be prudent and might, somehow, make it easier to beat it out of the ill-mannered offenders—er—I mean, nip the problem in the bud. Yes, that was it, nip it in the bud.

Through some painstaking, scientific research (what do you mean the School of Hard Knocks isn’t a recognised institution? Besides, it was confirmed by the University of Life!) I have discovered one of the reasons. Ready? The misguided notion that the culprits are entitled to be rude as whatever gracious act that came their way is owed to them. That’s right, they don’t have to be grateful for what they have a right to. And this distinct sense of self-importance seems to be spreading.

Imagine being asked for directions:

“Excuse me, can you please tell me where X is?”

“Sure. Follow this road to the junction, take a left and then the first right/Sorry, I’m not sure.”
“Great, thanks for your help/no problem.”

Sounds like a familiar process? Ah, but that is when you’re approached by a sane and lucid person. If this has always been your experience, count yourself lucky. Now imagine not getting a request for directions, but a demand. Aggressive voice, aggressive expression, no please or thank you before they storm off on getting a reply.

Even if my purpose in life was to give people directions, I would still expect some manners. How naive I am. My response? “Los siento, no comprendo Ingles.” Find it your damn self. These morons are often too ignorant to even be able to speak their native English, let alone any other language.

Words are wonderful things—allowing us to convey all sorts of information. For example, 'do not smoke in my home'. Should be a simple enough instruction. Not for the asinine few. The asinine will ask for permission, not get it and smoke anyway.

As a volunteer, I suspect that I have inadvertently become part of fated ‘Big Society’ (though you can’t hear me, rest assured that my voice is dripping with contempt when I utter the phrase) which our esteemed leader (more contempt) so loves to promote. For the most part, the people I help are lovely and full of gratitude.

But then there are those that act like you’re working for them rather than simply assisting, they point to a PC and stare at you blankly, expecting your telepathy to kick in. They expect assistance that isn’t even offered and, yet, fail to reply with a tiny word of thanks when you do go out of your way to help.

I’m a pedestrian yet even I’m aggravated by those who seem to slow down when crossing in front of a car that has stopped for them. What is that about? Are people really that absurd? Save your evil look for when it’s absolutely necessary- like when someone tries to mug you or a cashier gives you the wrong change.

Bless my mum for teaching me my Ps and Qs, but I wonder whether her work was wasted. The way things are going, I may as well join the crowd. I reckon I’d make a great diva—where’s my mineral water and basket of puppies? Read more by Shermaine.

For the consideration of others, please turn off your phone!

ROSIE DAVIES

Mobile phones. They have become so ingrained in everyday life that we would most likely not know what to do without them; holding them has become second nature, almost as if they’re an extended part of our hands.

Fiddling with their buttons absent-mindedly, or attempting to crack the various levels of games offers one way to pass time when waiting for a train, a bus, or friends. Issues with dodgy signal, the expense, the inevitable radioactive brain freeze and the weird deep-vein thrombosis feeling in your arm after using them for a decent length of time aside, they are extremely useful and in some instances life-saving.

But let’s all agree for a moment. At times, isn’t it easy to think that they’re the bane of modern life?

They manage to creep into every single facet of life, including places where they are categorically not invited. The theatre and the cinema are two that spring to mind. We’re all familiar with the ‘don’t let your mobile phone ruin the movie’ trailers, but as I’ve experienced so far, they don’t really work. I recently saw Harry Potter in one of those huge Odeon cinemas. Ten minutes into the film a girl four rows down got out her phone to browse Facebook. For crying out loud.

Aside from the fact that the light from her phone was terrifically distracting, who the hell starts social networking when they’re at the cinema? Who is that much of a slave to their cyber social life? And who has the attention span of a gnat to give up on a film so quickly? I personally managed forty minutes of The Wedding Crashers, a film so bad I have had constant nightmares about Owen Wilson’s nose ever since, before walking out. Even then I didn’t resort to my phone for comfort.

Then there’s the theatre. It’s more of a treat to go to the theatre, a little more cultured. Most of the audience will be of your parents’ or grandparents’ generation, so you’re lulled into the assumption that the majority have the decency and manners to turn off their phones, if they even own one.

Not a bit of it. Last night, whilst at the glorious Tricycle Theatre in Kilburn, a woman at the back let her phone ring three times before the eventually the actors intervened and gave her a good mouthful. Luckily, the play itself involved mobile phone sounds, so the cast could be fairly good-humoured about it. despite the outraged huffing and puffing from the audience. Unfortunately, the offender didn’t do much to help her fast-growing reputation as public enemy number one by calling out ‘I don’t know how to turn it off!’  Who has a mobile phone they can’t operate? I hope she thanked her lucky stars it wasn’t Shakespeare.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not 100% chaste. I’ve definitely heard mine whirring away in my bag on unsuitable occasions, trying desperately to cough loudly enough to cover the noise up. But I am bemused at the situations in which people think it is perfectly acceptable to use their phone, forcing everyone else to join in on the experience, whether they wish to or not.

We’ve all been next to the guy on the train forcing everyone within the radius of three carriages to know that he was ‘TOTALLY FUCKING WASTED LAST NIGHT’, and the vacuous girl who manages to have a conversation that doesn’t actually involve any real information. ‘I know, I was like totally…yah, I know, I just said to him like, it’s…really?! Yah, I know…I was like…oh my God, I KNOW!’ Why don’t the socially inept and those with little or no manners realise they are just being a plain sodding nuisance?

And then there’s dating. Most definitely NOT the time to constantly fiddle with your phone. We’d all like the person we’re sat opposite to think we are at a least relatively interesting, or attractive. However, here’s a stark warning: there are people out there who, on a date, will not only make you feel invisible by regularly glancing down at their mobile, but who actually have the nerve to text someone else whilst you’re talking to them, as if you’re just an interruption to their evening. If you’re lucky, you’ll get the hat trick: they’ll wave their phone in your face at some point to let you know they’ve received a text message which they are powerless to ignore, and make up some wet excuse to leave. I think I’d even prefer the fake emergency phonecall to that.

So, what to do? We can hardly get rid of them. But, just in case you do come face to face with those who ignore basic etiquette and manners from time to time, make sure you order enough surplus popcorn to throw at tossers in the cinema, and thoroughly enjoy the self-righteous moan you can have in the theatre when the perfect moment of poignant silence is broken. If in doubt, practise your best angry glare, and, if you can, move seats on the train. Better still, keep it in your bag once in a while, to savour the messages when you do finally have a quick peek at work. And most importantly of all? Sometimes, just sometimes – turn it off. Read more by Rosie.

The icing on the cake? Common sense, apparently...

ROSIE MCGEE

With Christmas thankfully dispatched for another year and many more weeks of long winter evenings, what better time to take up a new hobby? Combining my love of food and talents more usually associated with your Gran (please see my efforts at mastering knitting), I signed up for class named ‘Cake Decorating for Beginners’ and thus began my first foray into the weird and wonderful world of local authority-subsidised adult learning.

The weekly classes, held in an old, grand Victorian school building complete with the antiquated signs marking boys’ and girls’ separate entrances, began with the inevitable getting-to-know-you ice breakers, the prospect of which makes most civilised people want to groan out loud in sheer dread.

Once the teacher had furnished us all with her life story, the students were encouraged to do the same. As this is all about buzz words like ‘inclusivity’, ‘diversity’ and never, ever, on pain of death, discriminating against anyone at any time, for any reason, we didn’t go round the group à la corporate training courses and most other situations where people have to introduce themselves. Instead we were invited to chip in only when we felt ready to. Nothing so draconian as having to take turns. How wonderfully liberal yet senselessly time consuming, as throats were cleared and everyone looked awkward and shuffled.

 

The only man of the group began. No surprises there. Sorry chaps, but it’s a known fact that you love to steam roller ahead in such situations. Twenty minutes crawled past as we went through employment history (recently took early retirement from middle management in the Post Office), marital status (was engaged a few years ago but now single) and other interests (learning to cook and gardening). I suddenly felt as if I’d spent more time with him recently than my nearest and dearest.

Next up was a lady who talked at length about a bereavement she’d suffered. Now, I would never gripe about someone needing to talk about their loss as a part of their own grieving process. Unless it had all happened more than 20 years prior and had nothing whatsoever to do with learning to cake decorate. After two such lengthy and personal disclosures an uncomfortable silence fell over the room. No one wanted to be the next person to go. What could you say? How much delicate detail would you have to go into to top that?

It was mild despair that made me suddenly blurt out, a little too loudly: “I’m Rosie. I can bake but I’m not very good at decorating cakes and would like to learn how to do that”. Silence was maintained for a full minute; the clock ticked, possibly even the only bit of tumbleweed in South London blew past outside. Even the teacher didn’t quite know how to respond to my direct, yet highly relevant statement.

 

The following week, as we practised applying icing to a dummy cake (yes, such things exist), more personal information was traded. The very nice woman at the workstation next to me confided all her medical history and details of the time spent in hospital after being sectioned by Dr Raj off the telly. I didn’t have the heart to ask what her name was again.

Two latecomers joined the class: one heavily pregnant teenager and another woman so obese she couldn’t stand unaided. Should she really be learning how to add more calories to a cake?

All these people from different walks of life had one major thing in common: they were totally incapable of baking. Anything. When asked to bring a cake in to work on the following week panic erupted. The teacher, in a bid to quell the mounting hysteria, recommended buying one from the supermarket. But it didn’t calm the mood in the classroom. 

I suggested looking online for an easy recipe but they were too far gone down the route of out-and-out terror. Only the soothing maternal reassurances from the teacher that she would personally bake them one each and bring it in next week (at a cost) took them from a near-frenzied mob back to a group of adult learning students.

And that was when I cracked. My desire to be an epic smartarse overcame my manners and I had to sarcastically ask what were my fellow students planning on embellishing with their icing sugar and egg white mix on if the act of combining butter, sugar, eggs and flour and then heating was so anathema? Even more peculiarly the same centre ran a course called ‘An Introduction to Cake Baking’ and suggested students consider taking it in conjunction. Of course none of these bake-o-phobes had taken up the offer.

As the only person who had made the logical progression from mastering baking tasty, ugly cakes to wanting to create something prettier, I was genuinely mystified as to why all the other students were there. There is no conceivable reason for learning such complex sugar techniques if your eventual plan is stand poised with a piping bag ready to ice onto a nice eight square inches of nothing at all.

However, it’s slowly becoming clear to me that what I have in fact signed up for is a big, bizarre weekly group counselling session. But, at £90 for a 10-week course, it’s far cheaper than proper therapy and you get the added benefit of learning a few new skills too. Read more by Rosie.

The Train Commandments

JUDY JOHNSON

I am on a train for around 90 minutes in total each day. God, that’s depressing. It’s not the best part of my day. It’s a space in which getting a seat is a highlight, and something you feel a bit smug about even if it’s only for five minutes – so, hardly something to shout about.

But, after yet another journey of suffering people who either have no manners, no sense or just no awareness of anything around them other than their nose, I thought it was worth blogging about. And so, without further ado: The Train Commandments. Please try to remember at least one of the points when you next board a train. Or, indeed, any form of transport where other human beings are present. 

1. Thou shalt allow air into the train

I like air. Don’t you? Nice fresh air that wakes you up a little, helps you breathe, you know the stuff. So why, oh dear commuter, must you sit there idly, in your privileged window seat, as we all roast in this cabin of heated hell? If the windows are steamy, it’s not for drawing in – it’s sweat and breath and goodness knows what else, so open a window. It won’t bite. If there is not a single window open on your carriage, despite it being full of people sitting and standing in every space available, open a window. I don’t care if it’s raining. I don’t care if it’s snowing. You’re probably wearing a coat. Man up and open it so that we don’t all have to sweat and smell each other’s breath – there’s just no need to do that with strangers. 

2. Thou shalt not sit next to your invisible friend

Are you sitting on the aisle side? Look at the seat next to you. Is it empty? Now look around the carriage. Is the train getting full? Are people standing? Are you approaching a station with a platform full of people? Here’s a thought: don’t keep an empty seat next to you for no reason. Someone will see it and they will climb over you to get to it. That will be awkward, they might even touch you a bit with their boot, and given that you like sitting next to empty seats, that can’t be good. Shuffle over to the window side (or the middle if you’re in a row of three, there you go) and let someone sit down without having to negotiate the space between your feet and bags. Oh, and bags on a seat? Don’t you dare.  

3. Thou shalt remember your table manners, or find some

There’s a reason kids are told to chew with their mouths closed: it’s in the hope that they will remember it as they grow older and learn to eat like civilised human beings. None of us wants to see that mashed up Maccy Ds in your mouth. More importantly, none of us wants to hear you as you munch it, followed by a slurp of your drink, followed by more munching and loud exhaling through your nose. We don’t want to see crumbs falling all over the seat. If you must eat food while travelling (we’ve all been there), at least get something that doesn’t stink, doesn’t make too much noise and that isn’t messy. A Twitter friend had to sit on a train with a woman standing up, eating a Wasabi noodle soup. One can only imagine how sickening that carriage was, with its lack of windows open, full of people standing because the seats were filled by imaginary friends, while she slurped on soup. 

4. Thou shalt bend with thy knees

When you’re standing on a train and need to pick up your suitcase/briefcase/Maccy Ds wrapper, remember: trains are quite small. People sitting down are at about waist height. If you then bend over, from your waist, to pick up said item, you are quite possibly going to thrust your backside into someone’s face a little. This is bad etiquette. It is unnecessary. Simply bend at the knees and away you go, with no awkward encounters and probably no back problems because you really should lift with your knees, not your back. Those wrappers can be heavy. 

5. Thou shalt not infect the Metro

We all hate having coughs and colds and flu because we’re British and we still have to go to work and make sure we infect everyone else. But when you’re on a train, on your not-so-merry way to work, and that little tickle comes along, don’t sneeze into your Metro. Don’t cough into it. That is not a substitute for being polite. Use your elbow or hands to catch your grimy germs or, even better, use a tissue. Or even better than that, stay at home. No one wants to touch your germy dribble while reading about the royal wedding.

6. Thou shalt limit yourself to your assigned amount of space

Train seats aren’t luxurious, or wide, or particularly comfy, but they are a certain size. They are all the same size. Which means even if you are reading a newspaper next to someone who isn’t, that does not give you the right to elbow them in the ribs as you do so. Nor does it give you the right to spread your paper across into their space. And if you do, you cannot then get mad that they begin to read it. In fact, they should probably be allowed to turn the page.  

7. Thou shalt not try to get on the train before everyone is off it

Remember Funhouse? Well, in the final part of the game they had to wait for their team mate to come out of the funhouse before they could go in. Like a relay. Apply this logic to trains. Not only do you look like an impatient child when you shove your way past an old lady who is being slow at stepping off the train, but you are actually being stupid. The more people who get off the train, the more space there will be on the train. Let them get off, considering it’s their stop after all, and when you step on there will be more seats to choose from. See?

8. Thou shalt at least pretend to understand how annoying your voice is

It’s fine to have a phone conversation on a train. Really it is. But do you have to be so LOUD? We don’t actually need to know that your best friend has annoyed you, or that you didn’t get a pay rise. We’re not going to sympathise as we are busy trying to breathe in this airless carriage while not slapping the guy digging his elbows into our ribs. At least try to talk a little quieter or keep it short – we’ll know you tried, and we’ll hate you less.  

9. Thou shalt not suffocate those who are seated

It is unfair that you have to stand for part or all of your journey. We get that, we have been there. But We, the Seated, do not deserve to be suffocated by your coat. Or your bag. Or your scarf. Or your dreadlocks (seriously, this happened this morning, I felt quite pukey). Remember that the aisle, like the seats, is a certain size, and while those people sitting down may look comfy, it doesn’t mean they can handle having all the air, even the recycled air, taken away because you need to lean. This is no place for leaning. 

10. Thou shalt offer your seat to those who need it

A slightly more serious one to finish, but one that shouldn’t even need to be said. No seats left and a pregnant woman gets on? Get up. No seats and some elderly people get on? Get up. No seats and a disabled person gets on? Get up. Just be nice – it’s not hard. No one will think less of you, even in London. You might even get a smile out of someone – and that is something to shout about... 

The Train Commandments were originally published on Judy’s website, here.

Upselling: how upsetting!

MADDIE YORK

I’m terribly pleased to see that customer service is on people’s minds at the moment; with Michel Roux’s Service underway on the BBC, and Mary Portas: Secret Shopper starting on Channel 4 this week, it’s clear that we’re finally squaring up to Britain’s abysmal service culture and saying “now look here, this isn’t good enough”.

We have put up for far too long with the “there you go” waiter and the “if it’s not on the shop floor, we don’t have it” gum-chewing shop assistant, and we’ve somehow come to accept that on most occasions the person paid to help customers doesn’t see any particular need to stop talking to her colleague to speak to us, or even make eye contact.

And at the other end of the scale, we’ve allowed obnoxiously over-familiar techniques to become standard: the ‘server’ who bounds up to your table and says “hey guys!” as though he’s known you all his life; the shouty and impatient  baristas barking “next, please!” and “eat in or take away?”, trained to get city lunchers out of the way as soon as possible; and the aggressive and manipulative practice of flogging you more things than you ordered, that crude and hateful sales technique known as ‘upselling’.

“Any coffee for you?” asks the barista, breezily, as you stand ready to pay for the sandwich you’ve selected from the chiller and brought up to the counter. “Err, no, thank you, just the sandwich, please,” you reply, aggrieved, wondering why she couldn’t have just waited for you to order the coffee if you wanted it. “Any cookies or crisps with that?” Pause, while you sigh, yet more aggrieved. “No, as I said, it’ll just be the sandwich today. Thank you.” And it feels as though you’re holding up a shield to deflect all the gratuitous muffins, crisps and chocolatey extras being shoved in your face and heaped on top of your order. And you pay and leave with the uncomfortable feeling of having been brazenly manipulated, wondering when on earth it became acceptable to be so openly money-grabbing.

“It irks me because it’s just so insultingly obvious. Do they think they’re Derren Brown all of a sudden?”

The waiter’s once-simple task of listening to a table of customers make their order has turned into an elaborate upselling opportunity. “Any side salads with that? Fries? More drinks?” No, no, and no. I have no problem with a waiter asking a broader, polite question to round off the order, such as “will that be all?” A question of that ilk is useful; it lets the customer know that there’s no rush, there’s still an opportunity to add something else before the order is closed. It’s the offering of specific extras that irks me: salads, fries, muffins. It’s rude because it’s presumptuous; the waiter or barista shouldn’t presume that a muffin is the ideal side order to accompany your sandwich. What if you’re allergic, or simply cake-averse? Gently asking “is there anything else you’d like?” is entirely appropriate, but wading in with suggested bonus items – and let’s get real; it’s so that you’ll spend more, not because they care about creating the perfect meal for you – is intrusive and rude.

It irks me also because it’s just so insultingly obvious. Restaurants and cafes must have a very low regard for their customers if they think we’re going to be taken in by such a blatantly manipulative sales technique. Do they think they’re Derren Brown all of a sudden? That we’ll hear “any muffins with that?” and mysteriously not be able to control our urge to buy a muffin we didn’t know we wanted?  

I’d have thought that the first rule of retail and customer service would be to presume a certain level of intelligence in your customer. It’s charm, flattery and politeness that do the work in encouraging a customer to spend more, not crude retail techniques that she can see straight through. Sadly, customer service in Britain is largely utterly charmless, rude and insulting, and upselling is one of the worst features. It’s got to the point where I’m considering pre-empting it as soon as I get to the counter, sticking my hand up and saying “hold the muffins! I just want this sandwich! This. Sandwich. Alone!” Read more by Maddie.

Best wishes to Michel Roux Jr. and to Mary Portas, both of whom are flying the flag for better customer service – and we’re right behind their missions.

Image: Paul, FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Starter for ten: how old are you?

ROSIE MCGEE

I have a question: since when has it become acceptable to ask a woman her age? Is it just me or is everyone else suffering from this unpleasant change in manners rules? For all your sakes, I hope it’s not universal; that I’m the only one undergoing this new form of intrusive rudeness.

Either way I have personally been suffering greatly. Let me explain. I must look younger than I am. That’s not me being big-headed; it’s based on the fact that the whole world can’t stop asking me for ID. The same supermarket I’ve frequented at least once a week for last half a decade won’t sell me a drop of the hard stuff without first seeing my driving licence.

It doesn’t matter if I’m buying a bottle of vodka and a jumbo packet of condoms or a hundred quid’s worth of tinned tuna, loo roll, satsumas and one small bottle of beer: I’ll be asked either way. Whether in a work suit or super casual in tracky bums and one of those body warmer thingies that fashionistas attempt to justify by calling a ‘gillet’, I don't seem to be able to pass for 18.

I firmly believe that height has a bearing on this misconception. At 5’4”, I’m two inches shorter than the average British woman and, even though not tiny by any stretch of the imagination, a bit littler than many others. A friend of mine who is 5’11” bitterly complains about never being asked to prove her age.

“Come to the pub with me,” I promised. “You’ll be asked then.” And so we were, by a very young person only just old enough to work there. My friend beamed with pride as she handed her ID over for inspection. “What a compliment!” she gushed. Teenage barmaid then thoroughly ruined the moment for all concerned by letting slip the damning remark: “Oh my god, you’re old!” We were 24 at the time.

“They’ll say something along the lines of: ‘You really do look younger!’ Thanks, but I still think you’re a tool.”

That particularly soul-crushing incident aside, now I find the thing about looking younger than one’s years is that your conversation sounds odd to others. People can’t understand why I’m banging on about spending my Saturday nights on the sofa under a blanket handmade by aunt, sipping wine and watching Jonathan Creek on DVD (I have the complete box set) instead of talking about the wild and crazy parties I go to. And this confusion manifests itself in a question to clarify my exact age.

Of course I smile, in a gentle yet patronising way, and reply: “It’s rude to ask a woman her age.” Once upon a time that would have been the end of the matter, but not any more. Now the blighters invariably come back with things like “but seriously, how old are you?” Which forces me to snap back with “but seriously, it’s rude to ask.”

However, I often give in and reveal the much discussed number for no other reason than I want to conversation to move on and it’s clear that it’s not going to without some form of personal revelation on my part. At times like this I feel like defiantly asking: “Is there anything else you’d like to know? My bra size, maybe? Or my income last year as per my tax return?”

Last time I checked with my etiquette guru, the rule was that a lady never mentions figures explicitly. It’s fine to say dinner was expensive, but not exactly how much you paid. Similarly there’s nothing wrong with saying you’ve dropped a dress size but it’s less tasteful to specify which one you now wear. References and allusions are permissible but tricky to get quite right. If you find yourself ending a sentence with ‘if you know what I mean” then you can be confident you’ve got it wrong.

Coming out and demanding an actual number is never, ever acceptable. Furthermore, then refusing to let the matter drop until you’ve got it, is nothing short of conversational bullying. Most of the time the social nemesis is gracious enough to be a good winner once they’ve wrestled me into age disclosure submission.

They’ll say something along the lines of: “You really do look younger!” Thanks, but I still think you’re a tool. Before you berate me for being ungrateful, I do accept it’s a compliment – of sorts. Maybe only because I’ve been brainwashed by countless Sainsbury’s cashiers into believing that and now blindly accept it as fact.

Don’t worry, I’m not smug about it. My lifestyle of hard drinking and worrying will soon make deep inroads into youthful appearance and I can then enjoy watching people awkwardly trying not to tell me I look older than I am. Read more by Rosie.

Please drink responsibly? Many of us already do, thank you very much!

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

Ah, the New Year. The calm after the storm, or should that be the slump after the storm? Storm, at least, is the right word, as there always seems to be a certain amount of recovery required. Well, it is assumed that recovery is required, with the finger steadily aimed at us, the young.

It is a special time of year, bringing a sense of hope with the newness of it all, as well as an excuse to celebrate to incapacity. I say excuse; it’s almost a requirement as anything else will simply not do.

I have to make an admission, which may seem like a strange one for a woman my age, so brace yourself but, I barely drink. I can’t say that I’m teetotal, but I’m much closer to that than to the habits of those I hear screaming incoherently as they stagger along my street at three in the morning. I do drink, but not to excess and not that regularly.

If that is the way you choose to celebrate, more power to you. However, that shouldn’t result in the assumption that all of us will do the same. I resent it. In the week before Christmas, at an event I attend regularly, I was told that I didn’t have to come in the following week. Not because the facility was closed, but because it was assumed that I would be the worse for wear. The phrase “on the sauce” was actually used.

I did briefly wonder whether there was something else about me that gives the impression that I’m an irresponsible lush – maybe people just think that I need a drink – but I quickly rubbished that idea. It’s just what’s expected from the young during the festive period. It starts at Christmas and lasts until well into the New Year. We’re all supposed to be drinking on a constant basis in a period when asking for a soft drink earns you a look usually reserved for recently crash-landed aliens.

Alcohol makes me talk nonsense and feel sleepy. I recall a particular occasion in my younger days when I was involved in a full-blown, alcohol-inspired debate about the type of fabrics that shrink and/or stretch in the washing machine – no use, or interest, to anyone.

Of course, the effects wear off, but that just leaves me feeling as though I have spent the night swallowing rocks and stuffing cotton wool into every orifice in my head. So forgive me if I want to avoid it, but I’m perfectly capable of having a good time with little or no alcohol.

This is especially handy when you recognise that the world continues to turn and things still need to be done; things that are infinitely easier when you don’t have to hold your head for fear of it floating away or falling off, or praying to the porcelain Gods.

The tradition of New Year’s resolutions seems to me to be rooted in the need to detox after all the revelry. I can’t help thinking life would be so much easier if people didn’t assume that we are all in the same position of needing hangover cures and calling in sick. And, from what I can see, this tendency is certainly not confined to the young – whether grumpy or not. Read more by Shermaine.

Are season's greetings too much to ask for?

ROSIE MCGEE

GRUMPY CHRISTMAS

Am I the only person under 40 who still bothers with Christmas cards? A great deal of time and energy goes into choosing the right one, often starting months in advance. Not only is care and attention paid to the card itself but then I faithfully write a personal message in each one. None of this sign-the-name-shove-it-in-the-envelope business. I’ve decided if you value someone enough to send them a Christmas card then you should at least be bothered to write a personal sentence to them inside it.

I’m definitely in the minority with this philosophy. Without specifically shaming anyone in particular, I’ve even received cards that don’t contain my name at the top, merely on the envelope. Such aloof bits of paper conjure up either a minor celebrity signing away as if it’s the latest kiss-and-tell autobiography or the world’s most stressed woman ploughing through 3,256 cards before knocking out 912 mince pies. Surely no one who sends me a card is that famous, or that harassed?

Totally impersonal cards are like a blank email. Yes, it’s nice to know you dedicated a second and half to thinking of me, but really I’m a little offended you couldn’t spare me the full minute. However, I would take any of these over nothing at all, or worse: Christmas card criticism. The season of joy on earth and good will to all men means I socialise to the point of exhaustion and near nervous collapse. To each occasion I always take cards – for my hosts and for other friends I might see there. Why? Over-zealous card compulsion? Irrational desire to keep writing my own name? No, because it’s polite.

At least, I think it’s polite. As a child I remember people thanking my mother when she handed these envelopes over, smiling and making appreciative noises. Sadly that’s not my experience. I’m often greeted with a look of definite irritation and statements like “Oh, I’m not doing cards this year”. Suddenly my gesture of good will is four inches square of unwanted paper making all around it distinctly uncomfortable. Longing for the courage gleaned from a third glass of mulled wine, I imagine saying “Well, maybe you should. It is tradition, good manners and stops you feeling so awkward in situations like these.”

Instead I nod and look sympathetic as the excuses start. It’s either “work’s been manic”, or “as we’re away for Christmas we didn’t the see the point” or, increasingly, “it’s not very environmentally friendly”.

With the word ‘RECYCLE’ ready to burst out of my mouth at volume, I find it safer to stick to a non-committal “Mmm” while wondering when the whole world became so lazy that writing out a Christmas card was too much effort.

This maddening trend is symptomatic of society losing sight of the little thoughtful actions which make it a more pleasant place to be. I’m so sick of hearing that everyone’s so incredibly busy it’s a miracle they even have time to go to the bathroom. And yet these are often the same people updating their status every five minutes on Facebook announcing what they’re watching on the telly or having for dinner that night.

No one’s suggesting you make the damn thing from scratch in a frenzy of gold pen and glitter – just spend a few minutes, once a year, to remind people why they’re important to you.

However, if that’s still beyond you due to a job as rocket scientist, on-call brain surgeon or self-appointed television critic, then at least have the good grace to thank someone who has taken the time.

At Christmas it’s common to put differences aside, so is it really too much to ask for a little good will towards a well-intentioned friend proffering a few kind words lurking behind a picture of Santa getting stuck down a chimney? Read more by Rosie.