This other Eden,
demi-paradise
I am more than ever
convinced that I have too long resided in this island.
As my old buddy Bill
Bryson is fond of reminding us, we are not just separated by a common
language but are actually more exasperatingly separated by language,
custom and mores (apologies to Caesar for paraphrasing his
Commentaries on the Gallic Wars).
I must be getting
old. The daft things that you have to put up with in order to live
in England are beginning to get to me.
I was in Roys
supermarket (the largest village store in England, so they proudly
boast) – though this experience is equally frustrating in almost
any shop in the land. English people wander about in shops seemingly
without any sense of purpose and completely oblivious to anyone or
anything around them. They stop right in front of you for no
discernible reason. They cheerfully block an aisle, or even a
clearly-marked exit, whilst they have a chat with someone or anyone
about nothing. They will stand in front of a display case preventing
anyone else from examining the wares. They will seemingly puzzle
over which brand of shoe polish to buy so you cannot just reach in
and get the one you already know you want.
Then if you are
truly lucky enough to reach the checkout your problems are just
starting. The English can't handle paying for goods at the checkout.
You may well think they have all sprung fully grown from the head of
Zeus and; therefore, have never shopped before. This is the only
logical explanation. They are unable to position their loaded
trolley so as to enable it to be easily unloaded. They cannot load
their purchases onto a moving belt. Even though the checkout aisle
is clear ahead, they cannot (or more likely will not) move forward to
where the unloading can start. I would rather have an impacted
wisdom tooth extracted with a pair of needle-nosed pliers without
anaesthetic than watch them trying to pack a shopping bag.
Having already
established that the physical effort of getting the goods ready is
beyond them, we come to the paying. No English person has ever done
this before. They are to a man (or woman) all paying-virgins. For
each and all – it's a first. It must be, because they stand with
the “open-mouthed-guppy expression” on their face when the
cashier says, “That's 42 pounds and 68 pence, please.”
They are truly
astonished that they have to pay. They root about in their handbag
for their purse. They cannot get it open without some extravagant
effort. They are unable to find their credit card without searching
every available nook and cranny and examining the old bus ticket they
find instead.
God forbid that they
are paying with cash! Wait! I hear the reader cry, surely cash is
easier! (Not so, you foolish, silly ones.) When
paying with cash they examine every note even though all the notes
are different sizes and colours to aid in identification. Then the
fun really begins. Instead of handing over 43 or 45 pounds and
waiting for the change, they fumble about trying to find the exact
combination of notes and coins to settle the bill. All the while
they are convinced that they are doing the shop, the general public,
the bystanders, Uncle Tom Cobley and All a great and wonderful
favour. Get on with it you gherkin brains!
Finally
the paying process is over. Those in the queue who have not become
terminally ill or incapacitated in the wake of this excruciatingly
long process begin to dribble with the excitement that they might be
about to move forward. (Hold you hard – not so fast!)
Now
the bags have to be adjusted in the trolley. The purse has to be
replaced in the handbag. The inane chat with the checkout assistant
has to be concluded. (Sorry did I not mention that throughout the
paying process the shopper is carrying on a running commentary with
the cashier including tales of past exciting things that have
happened whist shopping, the health of various family members, the
outlook for the General Election, the fortunes of the local football
team and other even more interesting trivia?) All this has to
happen before they can move the foot or two from the end of the
conveyor so the next person can move forward. (No, I am not
making this up!)
What
is truly amazing to me is the on-lookers do or say anything. I am
often tempted to forcefully, yet politely, say something like.
“Excuse me, could you please move/hurry up/get on with it/stop
scratching your bum, etc.” Somehow I never do. I am more than
ever convinced that I have too long resided in this island.
Down
to the pub last evening for the quiz – during which I remembered
another thing that drives me nuts about England. My team-mates are
both driving instructors. Great! I'll ask them about the driving
habits of their countrymen.
Driving
is a complex activity. The cognitive and motor skills required are
more than complex. So, why do people make it more difficult? Have
they been taught to be ignoramuses or did it come naturally?
Somehow
after passing their driving test people learn bad habits. Or, is it
the way they are taught?
I
asked. Tell me this: “On the driving test you are, quite rightly,
penalised for “”not making progress””, correct?”
“Yes.”
“So,
why do people stop in the middle of a main road to let some twank
pull out from a side road?”
“No
idea.”
“Where,
then did they learn this crazy manoeuvre?”
“No
idea.”
“Am
I then free to shoot them for being gormless idiots?”
“No
comment.”
Do
the folks who do this realise that they are quite likely to cause an
accident? Do they care? Are they sub-normal?
There
you have it – two reasons why I need to keep myself deeply rooted
in Missoura!
