DUMB WAITERS

Do you ever wonder what goes on inside other people’s heads?  Or if anything actually IS going on?  I’m beginning to think a large proportion of the population passes its day in a default zombie state, endlessly streaming Justin Bieber videos across their cerebrum (or worse, listening to him speak), which naturally dumbs down the parts other bone-headed, internationally-acclaimed morons can’t reach, and instead of possessing the traditional ‘grey matter’, theirs is fluorescent pink, with the requisite addition of sparkly bits that inevitably gravitate into the neurones and clog up the synapses to near brain dead levels.

Regular readers of this blog will recall the esteem in which I hold post office staff (think of the biggest number you can and then put a minus sign in front of it), but it’s starting to occur to me that these state-sponsored conduits for analytical thinking are interbreeding with the rest of the population.

Before I present my evidence, let me share with you the last noteworthy post office counter encounter I enjoyed (hahahahaha) a few months ago.

I stood in line for what is commonly known as ‘bloody ages’ (can’t be certain of the exact number of hours because the post office clock had been set to run two hours fast, and also displayed the wrong month – at least, I’m hoping it was the wrong month), before finally approaching the languid young woman who, in the midst of the feverish excitement of charging customers the wrong postage and stamping fragile packages with a ten ton FRAGILE hammer, was trying to remain awake.

“I’d like to send this parcel first class, recorded delivery, please,” I trilled.

“Put it on the scales,” she yawned.

“That’s £143. 76,” she intoned, sleepily.  As she did for every parcel she was asked to mail.

She then asked me where it was going, so I held the front of the package up against the specially-thickened glass window, installed in all post offices lest some wayward customer brain cells float across the counter to lodge accidentally inside the hapless clerks’ heads.

“Is that where you’re sending it to?” she asked.

I turned the parcel around and looked at the giant, block capital letters of the address I’d written on a large, white label in black, indelible ink.

I looked at her.  “No, that’s my favourite number, and it’s such a pretty street name, I couldn’t resist writing it down.  I actually want it delivered somewhere else entirely,” I didn’t say. Instead, I said: “Yes.”

She looked puzzled.  But perhaps Justin Bieber had just put his shirt back on.

Evidence for interbreeding?  Well, there’s always the time I and some random ex-husband ventured into a large bistro chain for a spot of lunch, when a young waitress, sporting very long, blond plaits and an inane grin, came bounding up to us in Tigger-like fashion to ask, in a voice so high, dogs in a 12-mile radius were placing their paws over their ears:

“Would you like a table?”

“Yes please,” we affirmed.

“Well,” she grinned inanely, “We haven’t got any”.

And such was her glee, I felt somehow proud that I’d made her day.

(Her manager, having seen what was going on – i.e. this bouncing, cartoon advertisement for a new kind of toothpaste interacting with humanoids – immediately climbed onto the nearest table and hurled herself across the room at us, told us of course there were plenty of tables – which, thanks to the Ladybird Book of Restaurant Table Spotting, we had already identified ourselves.  She subsequently led this maniacal Vikingette into the back to boil her head a little more than it already was).

But today I’m delighted to present what is set to become the Gold Standard Irrefutable Proof of The Post Office No Brainers Interbreeding Programme:

Landline rings.

“Hello,” I say.

“Is that Destiny Shoes?” the voice asks.

“No,” I reply. “It’s a private home.”

“Oh, so sorry”.  Woman hangs up.

3 minutes pass. Landline rings.

“Hello,” I say.

“Is that Destiny Shoes?” the voice asks.

“It still isn’t,” I say.

“I’m really sorry, but I rang them back and they told me it’s definitely this number.”

And she reads my number out to me.

“Look,” I proffered, in a kind and caring way, “However many times they give you this number, it’s not Destiny Shoes”.

“I know,” came the response, “But they keep giving it to me”.

AUTHOR LEADS HER HEAD TO THE NEAREST BRICK WALL

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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About notniceetoile

I'm a freelance comedy writer, now living in Brighton after a few years in London, having relocated back to the UK in 2011 after a couple of years of adventures on the Cote D'Azur. Check out my blog about life in Nice:- http://drivingoverexpats.blogspot.com/ and my political satire blog:- http://amuzenewz.com/2013/01/28/passport-to-paradise/ Available for weddings (3 to date) and barmitzvahs (0 - I'm a girl, duh).

Posted on February 3, 2015, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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