Martin Samuel provides a true tale of Birmingham, 16th January 2017.
Having been out of the country for some time, I was neither au courant nor up to speed with many of the current ways of English daily life.
Wishing to buy a single postage stamp, of the one country in the world whose name is not on stamps, in order to pop a letter in the post, I entered the Birmingham Post Office which, other than the lady behind the counter, was completely deserted and, thinking, “Ah, no waiting, just what I like to see”, walked up to the counter and addressed her with a cheery, “Good morning”.
“What’s your number?” she asked.
In my book, I have always considered myself number one and replied accordingly, “Number one.”
“No, you need a number,” she informs me.
Somewhat at a loss, “How would I know?” I enquired.
“I just told you,” she replied, “You need a number.”
Puzzled, “Why do I need a number?” I asked politely.
“So I know who’s next in the queue,” she replied.
Looking around, I confirmed that I was the only potential customer in the place and told her, “Excuse me dear lady but, as you and I are the only people here and you are on the other side of the counter and therefore not in the queue, I am the queue and, by default, number one”.
“No, you need a number,” she again informs me.
“Oh, where would I obtain a number?” I asked, somewhat deflated.
“Push the button,” she says.
“What button?” I asked.
“The one behind you,” she tells me.
Turning around, the button was evident by its absence and I made the observation, “Sorry, I don’t see a button”.
“It’s on the other side of that machine,” she tells me, indicating it with an upward movement of her chin.
“Oh, no wonder I couldn’t see it,” I thought to myself and, retracing my steps, walked around the machine, found the button, which I duly pressed and, after a pause then a whirr, was presented with the printed out number, ’09’.
Returning to the counter with my number proudly held aloft, I smiled and was advised, “I didn’t call you.”
Flummoxed as I now had a number, in a questioning tone of voice, I said, “I beg your pardon?”
“You need a number,” she once more informs me. “And wait ’til it’s called.”
Not having a copy of the script, I asked, “What should I do?”
“Go back and wait in the queue until your number is called.”
“Queue?”
Perplexed, I once again retraced my steps, did an about-face and waited, not quite as patiently as when first I entered the emporium of postal possibilities.
After what seemed an age, I heard the ‘ding’ of a bell and a sign above the counter was illuminated with a red light.
“Aha,” I thought, I made one step forward only to look up again at the sign and see the number, ’07’.
My “Aha” disintegrated into an “Aha-arghh!” and, returning a pace in total frustration, I tore my printed out number into tiny pieces and deposited them in the appropriate nearby recyclable rubbish receptacle.
Waiting another eon or two and, after another ‘ding’ followed by the number ,08’, eventually, my number (’09’) was up, preceded by its very own ‘ding’.
By this time, I had been in the Post Office for twenty minutes or more and yet, had accomplished very little other than learn, “You need a number”.
Approaching the counter for the third time, I was about to state my personal postal requirement and, taking a deep breath was, to my dismay, immediately stalled by the lady behind the counter who, with what appeared to me, a self-satisfied smirk of pure malice, advised me ……… “You need a number.”