Must
try to let this small entry not descend into a mini rant. Up very
early to leave home for 6.15 in exceptionally cold and windy weather.
Goal: to reach AZ Sint Janshospitaal by or before 7.00 when I had an
appointment. Couldn't begin to understand why it was needed as all
the pre-op stuff had been done by the G.P. or on his behalf by a
laboratory for which I have just paid. After the ticketed queuing, I
had an interview with a young man who was clearly puzzled; he told me
several times that my operation was due to take place tomorrow
afternoon and I replied that I knew. Eventually he disappeared, with
the forms from the Huisarts, the G.P., and my I.D. card. He returned,
full of apologies, to say that I wasn't needed; the letter asking me
to attend had been an administrative error!! I graciously managed to
be philosophical about it, and my missed swim, before plunging, head
down into the maelstrom outside. Ten freezing minutes later the No 13
bus arrived and whisked me nearly home enabling me to arrive
approximately two hours after leaving, cold and starving.
Just
enough time for coffee and toast before I set off to walk to Kardinal
Mercierstraat to have my nails done, a Bruggean extravagance I have
adopted. Quite a long walk then one hour later, back to the wind and
rain, to walk another long distance almost to Gentpoort, to have my
hair trimmed and highlighted. All this beauty concentration because
it may be two months at least before I will be able to manage the
same journeys on foot, and that is an optimistic assessment. The
hairdresser is a marvel at cutting and his partner is great at colouring so all was set fair. And indeed, my hair looks good but there was an unexpected and unusual clash of cultures after the first hour and a half. When the highlighting had been done and the hair washed and conditioned, I sat with wet hair feeling rather cold. Only then did I notice that the salon was empty save for me and another woman suspended backwards over a basin, having her hair washed. It was around 12.45. I asked the shampoo girl where my hairdresser was and she said, unbelievably, 'Now he is eating.'
Is it
because I have recently visited America, Land of Customer Service, or
is it because that situation just couldn't happen in the UK? I said
quietly to the girl that the customer's money is what keeps the salon
going, so the customer must be looked after. She uncomfortably agreed
and disappeared coming back to say he would be with me shortly. In
all, I waited just over 20 minutes for him to appear and resume
business after a five minute phone call which he received, thus
making the wait, 25 minutes! I said nothing, it being politic not to
upset the man with the scissors but at the end, he said, 'So you object to my eating?'
'Not at
all, I object to waiting for over 20 minutes while you eat.'
'The
business of the day is constant, without a break, and I need lunch.'
I won't
report the short conversation, not at all heated, but the hairdresser
just did not understand my point. If you want a lunch break, build it
into the appointments bookings; don't take it in the middle of
someone's treatment. The photograph above right, is of a woman who manages to look neither cold nor petulant about waiting around with wet hair; quite glamorous too. It is, sadly, not of me.
