![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Exceptionally stupid chav in the post office today.
At lunch, I nipped across to the post office to send some mail. There were approximately 7,000 other hospital workers in the queue as well, so I exercised my British brilliance at being patient and standing around for hours.
A tracksuited youth around my age, but dressed like a teenager, was noisily trying to get passport photos done at the photo booth nearby. He struggled with the concept of putting the money in, forgot to draw the curtain across until halfway through the photos and then decided that what we all needed was for him to wave his mobile in the air in the the vain hope everyone would envy his saddening materialism.
And then, horror. He had to think for himself. He got out of the photo booth to stare at the little window where the photos arrive. In big, bold type the legend "Your snaps in four minutes" glared up at him.
So, of course, he barged to the front of the queue, invading the space of a lady trying to invest some savings and asked the cashier in a gentlemanly way what was wrong with the machine. "Ey, that machine robbed me photos!"
The cashier looked up. "It takes four minutes. It has to process them first."
"YOU'RE JOKING," he cried, incredulous. Of course, the world was shortly due to be exploded to make way for an intergalactic bypass, so time was indeed of the essence here. He stalked around the queue. He played with his mobile. Muttered to himself. Thirty seconds or so went past.
"How many minutes did you say?" he shouted again.
"Four," sighed the clerk.
"Four... bloody hell. Ar, ey." He looked at the machine. "You're doin' me 'ead in." He then called someone on his mobile to talk about the amazing day he spent four minutes waiting for photographs.
The machine clicked and whirred nonchalantly. I rolled my eyes and tried to block out his rant about the conspiracy to keep him in the post office for four minutes.
A mere couple of minutes later, the photos appeared. Moron didn't wait long enough for them to settle, so I think he smudged them-- the passport office are going to love him.
"Bout friggin time! I'm goin' somewhere else next time!" he cried dramatically, waiting to see the reaction of all about him. You don't do this with a British crowd, folks. Everyone in the queue gazed at the walls or looked at their watches or picked a piece of lint from their clothes. The cashier cast him a bored look, and, at a loss, he flounced out to find a magical passport photo booth that would print his photographs straight away.
Four minutes. Four bloody minutes, you moron. God help him if he ever has to use dial-up for the internet.
The best part, though, was the sight of a patient nipping over with slippers and dressing gown on. Shyeah, and its the hospitals who get all the flak for the spread of bugs and MRSA.
At lunch, I nipped across to the post office to send some mail. There were approximately 7,000 other hospital workers in the queue as well, so I exercised my British brilliance at being patient and standing around for hours.
A tracksuited youth around my age, but dressed like a teenager, was noisily trying to get passport photos done at the photo booth nearby. He struggled with the concept of putting the money in, forgot to draw the curtain across until halfway through the photos and then decided that what we all needed was for him to wave his mobile in the air in the the vain hope everyone would envy his saddening materialism.
And then, horror. He had to think for himself. He got out of the photo booth to stare at the little window where the photos arrive. In big, bold type the legend "Your snaps in four minutes" glared up at him.
So, of course, he barged to the front of the queue, invading the space of a lady trying to invest some savings and asked the cashier in a gentlemanly way what was wrong with the machine. "Ey, that machine robbed me photos!"
The cashier looked up. "It takes four minutes. It has to process them first."
"YOU'RE JOKING," he cried, incredulous. Of course, the world was shortly due to be exploded to make way for an intergalactic bypass, so time was indeed of the essence here. He stalked around the queue. He played with his mobile. Muttered to himself. Thirty seconds or so went past.
"How many minutes did you say?" he shouted again.
"Four," sighed the clerk.
"Four... bloody hell. Ar, ey." He looked at the machine. "You're doin' me 'ead in." He then called someone on his mobile to talk about the amazing day he spent four minutes waiting for photographs.
The machine clicked and whirred nonchalantly. I rolled my eyes and tried to block out his rant about the conspiracy to keep him in the post office for four minutes.
A mere couple of minutes later, the photos appeared. Moron didn't wait long enough for them to settle, so I think he smudged them-- the passport office are going to love him.
"Bout friggin time! I'm goin' somewhere else next time!" he cried dramatically, waiting to see the reaction of all about him. You don't do this with a British crowd, folks. Everyone in the queue gazed at the walls or looked at their watches or picked a piece of lint from their clothes. The cashier cast him a bored look, and, at a loss, he flounced out to find a magical passport photo booth that would print his photographs straight away.
Four minutes. Four bloody minutes, you moron. God help him if he ever has to use dial-up for the internet.
The best part, though, was the sight of a patient nipping over with slippers and dressing gown on. Shyeah, and its the hospitals who get all the flak for the spread of bugs and MRSA.
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}