Second Class Service

A brown A4 envelope containing a few bits of paper which I did not want to fold had to arrive at its destination as soon as possible. It was one of those documents of which I could not understand the reason for it being requested. It was Friday. No doubt whoever would pick the envelope up at the other end would do so on Monday. Then put it down again into a "to be looked at" tray. To be looked at the following week, no doubt.


"I'd like to send this to arrive as soon as possible, please," I told the lady behind the counter at the post office, nearly apologising for disturbing her intellectual conversation with the girl next to her about in which pub they should meet that night.


"It'll have to go Registered Post then," the woman said, rather put out as she found herself lumbered with a customer. She took the envelope from me, turning to re-start her conversation with the colleague who sat thinking hard about times and venues. At that point, I must have had a trial senior moment as I asked her to repeat the cost of the transaction. I had heard her say something about money but wasn't sure if she was telling her friend how much she would have to spend on the "it'll be a laugh" night out.


"£4.30." She did not bat an eyelid. Her head turned once more to carry on making those all important plans.


"Sorry?" I said, slowly coming out of my trance.


She looked at me. Her face was aghast at my difficult question.


"Well you want it to get there A.S.A.P. don't you?" she asked, rudely.


"Well, yes," I replied, beginning to lose patience. "But that's a bit expensive. It's as light as a feather!"


"Doesn't matter," she continued, "that's the cost." Right then. That's the cost. We have no choice in the matter. The post mistress had made the decision for me. After all, the life and death decisions that she had made that day had mainly involved which outfit she would wear, which colour to paint her nails and whether to have her hair up or down.


She started pressing buttons on her machine. I hoped her nails would break. Her colleague looked at me strangely. As far as I knew I had not grown another head nor had I gone cross eyed or had half the big mac I had just scoffed stuck between my teeth, but I had felt myself go a different colour. A similar shade to my hair; crimson red.

"I'm not paying that," I suddenly said out of nowhere. Boy, was I proud of myself. "Can you change it to first class, please."


I had used my manners throughout. I had not raised my voice. The woman and her colleague now stood on the other side of the counter, perspex and scales separating us and can you believe it, they both shook their heads in disgust. The woman who served me, miraculously spared her manicured nails and slammed a few more buttons, changing my transaction to first class which cost me the grand total of 48p. And, no doubt, the envelope will land on the recipient's desk on Monday morning when it will probably not be looked at anyway. If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is bad manners, especially in a customer service environment. There is just no need for it. After telling the farmer about my bravery in front of the sour-faced nail creature, he asked if I had remembered his cream crackers.