Now, I’m not one for formality – except where it is appropriate, of course.
Living in a hotel several days a week, it irks me to be constantly referred to as Mr Masher. I know most of the staff by now – I have been there longer than some of them – and I use their first names when I talk to them: it’s polite, it’s informal and it’s very easy, as they have it on a little badge pinned to their respective chests.
They all know me too, but insist on calling me Mr Masher whenever we converse, despite my request for them to not do so. Company rules, apparently.
However, one of the girls in the Beefeater - where I usually eat – has taken to using colloquial terms of address with her customers and she seems to be trying to squeeze as many in each time, as she can. The following is a genuine conversation that took place between us yesterday, as she served me at the bar:
Yes love, what can I get you?
I’d like to order some food please. Table 1.
Of course, darling, what would you like?
What’s the soup of the day?
Hold on, poppet, I’ll just check…. it’s French Onion.
French Onion? Same as yesterday then. OK, I’ll have the mushrooms.
Mushrooms it is, sweetcheeks. Main course?
Yes, I’ll have the Paprika Chicken Salad, please.
Paprika… Chicken… Salad… right. Anything else, cutie pie?
No, that’ll be it.
OK. And would you like to order a drink, love muffin?
Er, yes, I’ll have a large… sorry, did you just call me ‘love muffin’?
Oh, right. Um… yes, can I just have a large Pepsi please?
A large Pepsi. Right, that’s twelve pounds fifty in total, cup cake.
OK. Can you just add that to my tab, please, Sexpot.