I am Invisible

Bad news: apparently, I've become invisible. It's true. At The Granary Oven in St. Neots, they can't see me. I went in there the other day to buy a sandwich and three members of staff couldn't see me, although I was stood in plain view.

Yes, okay you've guessed it this is going to be a rant about the shoddy standards of service seen every day in the miserable grim motorway that is now modern Britain. Picture the scene:

Jordan walks into sandwich bar/bakery of the modern, glossy type. It is called the Granary Oven. He is one of two customers.

Jordan picks up sandwich and takes to counter to pay.

Waits five minutes whilst three members of staff, apparently unoccupied, fail to serve him.

Presumes self to be invisible.

Leaves unnoticed.

That was the sad situation I found myself in, only last week. I could have highlighted my plight by alerting one of the members of staff to of my desire to purchase the sandwich, and yet I felt that – on the evidence presented to them: man stands at counter of sandwich shop with sandwich – it should have been fairly obvious what it was I wanted. But no. As I stood at the counter right in front of her, one team member finished wiping the counter before turning on her heel and going round the back. Meanwhile an ugly and stupid old woman, was doddering about with a clipboard pretending to do something non-essential, whilst the manager was taking ages to serve the other customer, who he had wrongly served before me (I came into the shop first). Irked, and quite possibly invisible, I left.

All the above took about five minutes or so. Annoyed, I crossed the road, and headed for the greasy spoon across the road. In it was one bored-looking Turkish bloke. I approached the counter, and said 'Can I have a cheese and onion sandwich please?' Within 30 seconds, he had freshly prepared and wrapped just such a thing, and charged me less than the other rubbish place over the road.

So what have we learnt today. That it takes one bored-looking Turkish bloke about 30 seconds to make and sell a cheese and onion sandwich, whilst it takes three supposedly 'busy' English people five minutes to not sell a sandwich that they didn't even have to make.

This, I think, is an accurate snapshot of the way our service culture is managed and why – when we go abroad – standards of service seem much better. The truth of course is simple: they are better.

Anyway, if you're ever passing through the pleasant but anonymous town of St Neots and you fancy a bit to eat, avoid the ridiculously named corporate shitbox that is The Granary Oven, and go to that bloke over the road in the greasy spoon and give him your money instead.

A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.