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Sunday, Bloody Sunday.

It’s been a long time coming folks! The latest post! And it’s extra long and full of vitriol! Enjoy!

 

There’s just something about Sundays that sucks arse. Big time. The clearest and simplest reason is that you’re serving people who are spending time (not quality time, but time nonetheless) with their families and friends. Which just reminds you that you are not.

Or it could be that people are just massive wankers on Sundays.

Examples, you say? Why, of course.

 

The Hungover Arsehole

 

‘Give me a fiveshot black Americano.’

‘You’re welcome’

‘Are you being SNIPPY with me? I have a HANGOVER!’

 

Oh, I’m sorry, did I miss the part where having an overabundance of alcohol in your system means social norms don’t apply to you? And maybe if you’re so fucking hungover you shouldn’t have DRIVEN to the coffee shop. Or maybe you should have had a shower. That would have made you feel better. And the rest of us would really appreciate it.

 

These aren’t really too bad. Usually, you look a bit affronted, then they get all bashful and go ‘sorry, raging hangover’ and together you laugh at why a thirty five year-old man still can’t figure out how to hold his drink. It’s a delightful bonding exercise.

 

Except, there’s The Drunk Arsehole.

 

‘OI LOVE! OI! YOU! YEAH! YOU! DARLIN’! WANNA GO ON A  DATE?’

‘I want to get you a cup of coffee.’

‘THAT’S LIKE A DATE INNIT?’

‘Do you normally pay your dates?’

‘…I’ll have a black coffee. Two sugars.’

 

The worst of these was the bigoted, homophobic, racist moron dancing around with a broom and a traffic cone on his head, shouting insults. The best was the confused tipsy man who walked in after a Christmas party and asked if he was anywhere near Leicester Square. That was the last place he remembered from the night before. Staff parties. Lethal. (Note: He was about 15 miles out of central London).

 

 

Now, none of these compare with the families. Or, more especially:

 

 

The One-Day-a-Week-Dads.

 

The worst thing about this particular specimen of customer is that they’re not always divorced dads who don’t really know how to bond with their kid in the limited time they have. That, maybe, I can understand. They buy the kids everything they could possibly eat or drink in the hopes that providing will make them the world’s best father. That’s fine, good luck to you.

It’s the ones who aren’t separated that drive me nuts. You’re looking after your children for AN HOUR. And you don’t know the dimensions of the buggy so you keep bashing into people, and you wait in a queue, telling the kid to be quiet so you can phone Mummy and ask if dear little Tarquin is allergic to nuts or dairy.

 

THIS IS YOUR KID. Stop treating it like a one day training exercise. Yes, we do babychinos. Yes, it’s just froth. Yes, chocolate has dairy in it. No, your wife doesn’t normally give your kid chocolate cake at eight in the morning. Yes, I can get you a high chair. No, it’s not adjustable. Yes, a chocolate cream has chocolate in it. No, we don’t do sugar-free caramel.

No, I’d rather little Timmy didn’t hold up a queue of fifteen people because you want him to put the card in the machine because your wife said it’s good for his motor functions. Now we have to reset cash register. Thanks. At times like this, I miss your wife. And that’s saying something, because she’s a vindictive spoilt cow who talks to me like I’m a moron. But at least she knows what she wants to fucking drink.

 

And don’t spend fifteen minutes lecturing me on why you don’t want to pay for extra shots of coffee, just to insist on a take away bag for your cake, and EAT IT OFF THE TABLE. What, you’re sitting there on an ipad but you refuse to spend twenty pence so you can have a plate? No, go ahead, please hold up an entire slew of people to ensure your child gets ‘the best possible babychino, in a bigger cup’ (who knew dick-swinging could apply to childcare?) but then sit and ignore the kid by having loud, obnoxious phone conversations with Larry at the office. And then sit waiting desperately for your wife to appear, only to hold up your darling demon child, and show her he’s still breathing and everything.

So you both toddle out, happy that you have proven your interest in your mini-me, and I am left with the destruction you have caused. The bits of tissue dear little Joel has shredded, the crumbs of carrot cake he decided to press into the sofas. The stickers on the floor, the chocolate milk sprayed across the windows, and in general, enough mess to warrant three cleaners and a forensics team.

 

Now I’m not saying all our dads are like this. We have a few stay-at-homes who come in every day, collect their coffee, allow their very polite children to ask for some water, and then quietly entertain them for an hour or so. These people are lovely. But they do not come in on Sundays. Because they, in their infinite wisdom, know that arseholes are about.

 

Oh, and a special shout out to the Sunday Dad who came in ten minutes before closing, ordered a drink, dithered about making me change said drink and then said I looked tired. When I pointed out I’d just worked a ten hour shift, he said ‘Oh yes, that would make you tired. I’ve spent all day watching TV.’

Did I go off about how I have two degrees, and am now going off to my second of three jobs after I finish that shift? Nope. Instead, I decided to pity someone who wastes a Sunday in such a manner.

So go forth readers, enjoy good coffee, make good children. And for fuck’s sake, don’t waste a Sunday!

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Bad Grandma

‘Oh, Grandma, Look How Big Your Mouth Is!’

 

Now, in general, I’m not a granny-basher. Grandmas are nice to have around, you know, when they wear cardigans and bake cakes. Not so much when they’re ordering around staff and treating people like crap. That’s not what Grandmas are for.

So this particular Granny (and I must paint the picture before you accuse me of being too mean. She didn’t look like a Granny. She looked like a faintly older woman. She just happened to have grandchildren. So give me a break, I’m not picking on an enfeebled OAP) brought in her whole brood. Two daughters, three grandchildren. Three loud grandchildren.

But whatever, family outings to a coffee shop, good for you. And when there’s a whole bunch of people trying to order, and she’s telling me that the cappuccino HAS to be skinny, and ignoring every question I ask so she can constantly refer to her kids across the store. Loudly. And then the grandkids pick things up, put their sticky fingers on my pretty glass counter. It’s generally a bit hectic.

This is not a Wolf. But it is something that probably got what was coming to it

She then asks for babychinos. For those of you who are not accustomed to strange made-up words for milk products, babychinos are teeny cups of warm foam for kids. Ours are free, and come in espresso cups. She then insists that we make her the larger size. I point out that if she wants three large ones, I’m meant to charge her, but I’ll only charge for one. I smile, I’m polite. I’m doing her a favour. She then complains loudly about how I’m taking her money, she’s spending enough as it is, and forget the babychinos. She then instead takes three small cups, flounces off and fills them up with milk from the condiment bar.

There is only one response to this: Cheapskate.

So time passes by, they speak loudly, the children scream, but, you know what, it’s fine. Really. Until she calls loudly and waves me over to her table, whilst I’m in the middle of serving a customer. She clicks her fingers at me. Yes. Yes she did. I know, I can’t believe it either.

‘Oh you, excuse me, you! Yes! My granddaughter’s spilled her milk. Can you come over and sort it out?’

Erm, well, sure. The majority of lovely people come over and get some napkins, or ask for some paper towel, or apologise. A few wonderful people even ask for the mop. But yes, that is my job, that’s fine.

So I go over to clean up the liberally spilled STOLEN milk- except that they won’t move out of the way. So I’m on my knees cleaning up around their feet whilst the kids are kicking each other and the adults are talking over my head. Granny Dearest says ‘Oh, I suppose we should move out of your way! Haw Haw!’ and then continues talking.

So really, my response, after getting kicked in the head by kiddy Converse, is screw this for a laugh. I wiped up as well as I could, and got out of there sharpish. Until five minutes later, when she’s signalling for me again, an imperious twitch of the wrist inherited only by the filthy rich.

‘Excuse me! Young Lady! Come back here! You didn’t do a proper job! It’s still wet over here! Is it too much to ask that you come back over here and actually finish the job correctly?’

Now, this sent me into a rage so blinding that I vibrated as I fetched the mop and took very little care about whose shoes got touched with the dirty mop head. And I usually show great respect for designer heels.

She then, of course, complained that I was not doing it right.

 

This kind of customer can ruin your day. But luckily, once I rage and whine a bit, I forget about these horrible creatures and get on with my day. And I was quite sad that I forget about her, because I wanted to mock her on the interwebs. And then she returned! Again, with grandchildren! Again, quibbling about price! Again, stealing milk, and then letting her descendants spill it. Again calling me over to clear it up.

And this time, I calmly took over a pile of napkins, plastered on a smile, said ‘There you go!’ and ran away. When I returned, the table was empty, and the napkins unused. Watch out Grandma, this Big Bad Wolf’s got teeth. And a blog.