Postcards From Across the Pond

As you know, I belong to two choirs, and spreading Christmas joy through the singing of festive carols is what choirs are especially good at. Which is why, this past weekend, I found myself in the local shopping mall, arguing with the Grinch, disguised as a Mall Manager.

This woman’s reputation proceeded her. She is the one (or, at the very least, one of the ones) responsible for the attempted abduction of the swan statue in Swan Walk Mall. It’s too long a story to go into, but the gist of it is: the Mall Management deemed the much-loved statute was too dangerous so they decided to remove it. There was a hue and cry, so they said they wouldn’t. Then they did, under the cover of night. But someone happened to see them carrying the statute out, photographed them, and sent it to the local paper. After a louder hue and cry, the swans were reinstated and, as far as I know, have still not attacked anyone.

She was also directly responsible for forcing a homeless woman to stand in the rain. A local Big Issue seller—a polite young woman—used to stand outside the mall, selling her papers and chatting to people. Many locals knew her and were fond of her. When it rained, she would stand under the large covered area in front of the mall entrance, until Mall Lady noticed, and forbid her from stepping on what she considered mall property. I do not know the outcome of that charming edict.

So, I knew who this woman was, though I had never met her. Until, that is, we began gathering for our scheduled performance. We had sung in the mall before, so it was a familiar routine, until a woman stormed up to me and said, in no uncertain terms, that I could not plug my speaker in. It was a good thing that her reputation proceeded her, because she never, throughout the entire encounter, introduced herself. I didn’t introduce myself either, I just told her that it was battery operated and didn’t need to be plugged in.

“Well, you can’t turn it on, then.”

I explained that, as a choir, we sang to backing tracks, and if we couldn’t hear the backing tracks, we couldn’t sing. She didn’t address the issue and, instead, told me I couldn’t put the music stand up, either. I was explaining that, without the ability to see the music, it was going to be hard for the director to direct, when my wife—ever the peacemaker—and the woman running the charity we were singing for, joined in the debate. As I was getting ready to invite the woman, in the kindest possible way, to take a long walk off a short pier, I absented myself from the discussion.

When I returned, a sort of truce had been arranged. We could have the speaker turned on, but it had to be very low. And we could put the music stand up, but someone had to stand in front of it to protect the general public should it try to attack anyone.

So, I plugged my guitar into the speaker, cranked it up to full, stood behind the music stand, and started playing.

The woman patrolled the perimeter for a while, scowling as if she’d just swallowed a wasp but, with the public already clapping and joining in, she decided retreat was her best option.

And so, we sang. And after we finished, we retired to a nearby, well-known establishment, for a drink. It was still relatively early so the place wasn’t crowded. We asked the bar staff if we could sit at the big table in the corner and they said that would be fine. So, we sat down with our beer and wine, and waited for the teas and coffee. And waited. And waited. Finally, one of our number raised their glass and said, “Cheers!” and those without a drink just pretended to toast, and our director took her water bottle from her handbag, toasted with it, and took a sip.

The hostess immediately appeared at our table:

“You can’t drink that! If you want water you have to order it from the bar!”

And walked away.

The fact that our director, and several others, still did not have their drinks was lost on her. So, one of our number went to the bar to ask after them. I could not hear the exact words from where I was sitting, but I could definitely hear the tone, which was, “You’ll get them when you get them!”

“Well, if we had our drinks,” I said, “we wouldn’t need to drink our own fucking water.”

Regrettably, the hostess was too far away to hear.

(This, of course, scandalized the women in the choir, who are not used to hearing my everyday vocabulary, and I had to explain that, although we’d been singing together for many years, they saw only my public, more polite side, whereas, privately, my language is shocking.)

Then the hostess swung by our table again, plonked a notice down and told us it was reserved.

“You’ll have to leave as soon as you finish your drinks!” she said, which was our plan anyway.

Now, I could forgive Mall Lady. She probably has Health and Safety breathing down her neck, and wakes from dreams where someone’s darling climbs the swan statue and becomes impaled on a beak and she is found legally responsible and sent to jail. (An extreme example, but not actually outside the realm of possibility.) So, she’s not required to be hospitable. But the hostess? She’s in hospitality, FFS! It’s her job to be hospitable.

As we finished our drinks, we made plans to meet up again the following week. We had been thinking of going back to that pub, but after the way we were treated, decided to go somewhere else.

Regrettably, the hostess was, once again, too far away to hear.