Sorry?

          It makes no sense to dislike someone you have never met, yet it happens. I, for instance, don’t like the owner of a certain flashy Aston Martin that is always parked on the street outside offices nearby, invariably with a bright yellow PCN tucked under the wiper. Why? Because whoever it is seems to be bragging “I have so much money that I don’t need to concern myself with the cost of parking”. But the message I construe is nastier than that: that they don’t care about the wider consequences to society. They don’t care that their car is an eco-destructive guzzler; that parking charges are part of the move to encourage the use of public transport; that the bureaucracy involved in collecting unpaid charges is costly to the public purse. In short, the message I’m getting is “I’m all right, Jack”.

          Of course, it may be that underneath that selfish façade lies a nicer person than I imagine, one who is simply misguided or ill-informed as to the long-term consequences of their actions and who, if shown the error of their ways, would be open to change. If they were to watch the film, The Age of Stupid (as I just have), they might be persuaded to start buying parking tickets or, better, trade down to a Nissan Leaf or, better still, catch the tram to town. The film asks why we didn’t stop climate change when we had the chance and though, at the time of its release in 2009 that message might have been ahead of the curve of widespread acceptance or understanding, it has certainly gained traction since. Are there people, still, who are ignorant of the link between their actions and the consequences? Yes, it is possible. Are there people who know but care not? It looks that way, to me.

          I don’t mean to rant but, by way of mitigation, it’s been a week of wind-ups. I walked past the Aston Martin yesterday to go into a pub to book a table. It was early, but the ‘open’ sign was posted on the door and there were people inside. However, I walked into a less than welcoming scenario. The girl behind the bar returned my cheery “Good morning,” with a blunt “We’re closed”. I explained that I just wanted to make a booking and she glanced over at the two people seated nearby, one of whom turned out to be the manager, who, rising resentfully to the occasion, unsmilingly entered my details in the book. “There’s an 'open' sign on your door, by the way,” I said as a parting gift. But no apology was forthcoming.

          Nor did I get any form of apology for the bungled replacement of a window on the campervan. Four weeks after having paid for the service and two aborted visits to the depot later, it still hadn’t been sorted. The company’s method of communication is thorough, if occasionally misguided. It involves office staff sending emails followed by text messages and, ultimately, phone calls. But even when the core information it conveys is duff, the process is inexorable. The phone call at the end could be an opportunity for human intervention but even that starts on the wrong note with a recited script that begins “This conversation is being recorded” and goes on to demand that you reveal personal information, “in the interest of security”. I took a call from them while I was in the doc’s waiting room, because I was keen to get an update, but when they demanded that I say out loud, in public, my name, address and the details of my vehicle, including its whereabouts, I ended the call in the interest of my security. I bet that Aston Martin owner would have seized it as another opportunity to brag.