What does one have to do to get some decent service in this place? I'm probably one of the very few women who absolutely hates shopping. I don't mind the act itself, but I do mind the people I have to put up with.
From the nature of their titles, one would assume that sales assistants are supposed to do exactly that - assist.
Instead, you will more than likely find them huddled together in a corner somewhere, catching up on gossip, or counselling each other about relationships.
All this while I patiently wait for some assistance at the shoe section. Sorry for cutting into your therapy session, but all I want to know is if you have that boot in brown.
... sales assistants are supposed to do exactly that - assist.
The assistant unwillingly drags herself away from the conversation and into the back room, and brings me a pair.
Now it's time for possibly, the most unpleasant bit: standing in the queue. I hate queues, but I suppose it's a necessary evil. Now I know for a fact that moving closer to me - and poking me in the back with your protruding bodily bits - is not going to make this line move any faster. So please refrain from moving into my personal space - especially if you've rushed to the shops and not bothered to wash your personal space before doing so.
Once I get to the till, I am again greeted by a sullen face. Yes, I do understand how much you must hate your job, but you are being paid to be here, so the least you can do is muster up a half decent smile - and ring up my goods properly of course.
Finally, I'm out of the store and can now meet a friend for lunch.
... poking me in the back with your protruding bodily bits - is not going to make this line move any faster.
The restaurant is not all that busy, but it takes the waiter almost 30 minutes to get to our table. I suspect the only reason he came at all is because we waved like mad women until he spotted us. Why? Because he and a group of about five waitrons are watching the rugby on the big screen in the food court.
Imagine me rocking up at your house to do an interview. As you are pouring your heart out to me, I tell you to hold on a second, as I turn on your television. "Sorry," I say, "but I'm dying to know what's happening on Isidingo. I can't miss it." No, I don't think you'd be very impressed with me.
Eventually, I get to leave the hell hole of a mall, but not before getting stuck behind a whole family - taking up the entire isle - walking slower than snails. I'm trapped behind the "going nowhere slowly" family and it's not alright. But I eventually make my way to the parking lot, and speed out of there like there's no tomorrow.
The restaurant is not all that busy, but it takes the waiter almost 30 minutes to get to our table... he and a group of about five waitrons are watching the rugby on the big screen in the food court.
I think it's about time I get a personal shopper, because malls are going to be the death of me I tell you.