Popping into my village pub for a swift pint with some mates on Monday night, I found the place surprisingly busy (well, four other people, two of whom promptly left when we arrived). The landlady, Sue Wass (Big Sue, but for your own sake, not to her face) is effortlessly rude. "Whaddya want?" and our ordered beers are slammed down on the abr for our consumption. Calls for other items (crisps for example) draw a drawn out sigh from Big Sue. Retreiving the crisps calls for a step to her right you see (how can customers be so difficult?). Efforts at exaggerated politeness in an attempt to provoke the most base level of courtesy on her part are in vain.
After some light hearted banter with the other patrons of the establishment (from Richmond, 6 miles away, so some people must like it) and a stroking of one of Sue's Basset Hounds in a doomed attempt to curry her favour, I attempted to break the ice with some friendly conversation with Sue. I ask whether Ian Botham (Britain's greatest sportsman of all time, now the Shredded Wheat man) who lives next door to her comes in often, as I remember a newspaper interview of his in which he claimed that he did, which I did not believe. If I tell you that it ended with Sue saying, "He's a local, you're a local. You come here once a year, he's come here once!" then I think you get an idea of how the conversation went.
Needless to say, I'll be back next year.
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