I stood on the lawn in front of the house, smiling and chatting to the assembled group.
They had each paid to be a part of our Pledger and Benefactor day and we were making sure they felt they received their money's worth. I had given a guided tour of the house and was now making myself available to answer any questions they might have.
As I explained for the seventh time in as many minutes about why the house is limewashed, and therefore not black and white, I noticed a couple of people in the crowd that I was certain were not part of the group. For a start, our Pledgers and Benefactors were all dressed in wet weather gear and sensible footwear, having previously toured the woods and farms on the estate. They also wore name badges. A couple in brightly coloured shorts, with a dog in tow, stood out somewhat.
I watched them for a while, as I continued to chat to our official guests. They'd obviously taken advantage of the unpadlocked gate, as this was actually a closed day, and they would have found the ticket office unmanned. Dogs are not allowed beyond the Gatehouse either, so my hackles were up, but I felt loathe to have a public confrontation in front of our VIPs.
Eventually the man separated from his companion and headed into the house. I was agog at the cheek of it. I finished my conversation about limewash and excused myself. I found the uninvited guest in the Great Hall.
"Hello," I smiled. "Are you with the Pledger group?"
"Oh no, " he replied, "we're just visitors."
"Ah," I said. "Well I'm afraid we're actually closed today. This is a private function."
"Well nobody told us!" he exclaimed.
"That's because there was nobody in the ticket office to tell you. Because we're closed."
I walked him back outside and locked the house before any other opportunistic passersby wandered in.
I then scampered over to the courtyard where McColleague was in charge of the refreshments. I began to recount my tale of naughty visitors blagging a free visit.
"So, I had to usher him out of the door and - bloody hell! There they are again! I've asked them to leave once already!"
Sure enough, the completely unfazed couple, with dog, were now wandering into the courtyard and having a good look round.
"Well," huffed McColleague, "the nerve of it! I'd be so embarrassed, wouldn't you, if I found out I was in the middle of a private function and shouldn't be there?"
"Absolutely," I agreed. "They'll be over here wanting a cup of tea and a biscuit next!"
Our steely stares may have dissuaded them for trying for a free cup of tea, though. As it was they made a point of having a leisurely stroll around, before sauntering off - in the opposite direction to the exit. It was most frustrating. It was as if they knew I couldn't go for the jugular, wouldn't risk a potential scene, it being a day to impress our paying guests and all.
How very, very naughty some people are.
Showing posts with label naughty people. Show all posts
Showing posts with label naughty people. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Saturday, March 24, 2007
A Conversation at Closing Time
"It never gets any better does it?"
"Doesn't it?"
"No."
"...?"
"Bea was just cashing up in the tea room when in comes Bertha with a huge box of eggs. Well, we don't have any room for them. You know how we're fixed."
"I do, yes."
"So, Bertha, she says 'Where d'you want these eggs?' and Bea, she says 'What?' and Bertha, she says 'Where can I leave these eggs?'
Well, Bea's trying to do the till, and you know how she gets when she's doing the till, so she says 'We can't take them here, I haven't room for them here, you'll have to take them down to the shop.'"
"Ok, fair enough."
"Yeah, but that Bertha, she goes 'Stick 'em up your arse!' in front of everyone, in front of the tea room girls and the customers, and walks out!"
"Oh dear!"
"Well, Bea's not happy."
"No, she wouldn't be."
"'Stick 'em up your arse' she said! In front of everyone!"
"Yes...yes, that's terrible. Awful. Sorry, I shouldn't laugh. It's very serious. I'll have a word."
"Doesn't it?"
"No."
"...?"
"Bea was just cashing up in the tea room when in comes Bertha with a huge box of eggs. Well, we don't have any room for them. You know how we're fixed."
"I do, yes."
"So, Bertha, she says 'Where d'you want these eggs?' and Bea, she says 'What?' and Bertha, she says 'Where can I leave these eggs?'
Well, Bea's trying to do the till, and you know how she gets when she's doing the till, so she says 'We can't take them here, I haven't room for them here, you'll have to take them down to the shop.'"
"Ok, fair enough."
"Yeah, but that Bertha, she goes 'Stick 'em up your arse!' in front of everyone, in front of the tea room girls and the customers, and walks out!"
"Oh dear!"
"Well, Bea's not happy."
"No, she wouldn't be."
"'Stick 'em up your arse' she said! In front of everyone!"
"Yes...yes, that's terrible. Awful. Sorry, I shouldn't laugh. It's very serious. I'll have a word."
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Ramblus Interruptus
Upon returning home after a sojourn off the estate it is not unusual to find people near the locked gates, a subject I have discussed before.
They tend to fall into three main categories:
1. Those who have walked down to the gates, seen the closed signs and are about to walk back up again.
2. Those who loiter, hopeful that as you unlock and enter the gates they might enter also.
3. Those who are about to climb over the gates for an illicit free visit (or those who have just done so).
The walkers next to the gates today were particularly funny, as they fell into the “just about to climb over” category.
The amusement factor came from the chap who was in the process of lifting his dog up over the gate. Upon noticing our arrival behind them, the subsequent turning of that movement into a nonchalant, "I-wasn’t-really-in-the-process-of-lifting-this-dog-over-your-gate, this-is just-the-time-of-day-I-do-a-bit-of-dog-lifting, wheeeeee-he-likes-it!" gesture is a joy to behold.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
The Best Things in Life are Free
Free Entry Day. It’s a nice concept. Open the doors to everyone, no charge, so that those people who might not usually have the income or inclination to visit can take advantage of this once in a year opportunity.
This year Free Entry Day coincided with our Damson Weekend, and some beautiful autumnal weather, so we were mobbed. So many people – so many of whom had no particular love or respect for heritage and the environment, but, hey, it was free! – meant a lot of wear and tear on the house and grounds. The toilets had that outdoor music festival feel and there were plastic bottles and rubbish strewn throughout the gardens.
There was also some confusion about how much of the day was free. Many people wanted free damsons as well as free entry. “It didn’t say anything about having to pay for the damsons on your sign!” I had been under the impression that the concept of Pick Your Own was a well known one, but maybe all orchard owners and vendors of fruit have to contend with this. Maybe lots of people think the Pick Your Own signs are a genuine plea for passersby to gather all this annoying fruit and take it away and if money changes hands at all it should be going into their pockets for providing this service. I have learnt, over the years, that signs of any kind, no matter where you site them or how you word them, provide a source of unparalleled confusion in certain people.
That sunny afternoon I was busily picking damsons to bag up and sell for those people who did not want to pick their own, when my radio squawked. “Doris, can you come to the ticket office?” Aha, I thought, I bet it's a difficult customer to deal with.
I was right. A frowning couple, wearing dark glasses that never came off during our entire exchange. Their body language told me all I needed to know.
"Hello, can I help?" I asked, with my widest professional smile.
"Yes. There's an Apple Day at Somewhere Else today. The same day as your Damson Day. Can you tell me what the main difference is between your day and their Apple Day?"
"Um...Is it that they have apples and we have damsons?"
They did not find this remark as witty and charming as I did.
They went on to complain that whereas Apple Days have apple tasting, apple products, apple varieties to identify, apple experts and a whole plethora of apple-related activities, all we were offering was the chance to pick damsons and buy jam. They felt "misled". They kept brandishing the property leaflet at me, pointing at the events listing that says "Damson Weekend". They were cross that we hadn't specified exactly what the event was. They had made all sorts of assumptions about what a Damson Weekend should entail and were angry that their fantasy damson world, complete with damson parades and damson themed white knuckle rides, had not been actualized. At which point I interrupted to say that a press release had gone into all the local papers (and – oh joy - my colleague happened to have the newspaper article on hand to prove my point) which explained EXACTLY what to expect on the day. I had also been on BBC Radio Local to tell people EXACTLY what to expect on the day. They stuttered to a halt, for just a moment. But the woman rallied with "Well, yes, but not everyone reads the paper or listens to the radio".
“True” I said, “but you'll never reach absolutely every single person on the planet.”
And as for the property leaflet she kept flapping about in my face, I explained that we have to print those a year in advance, so no details are given on any of the events, as things often change in the interim, which is why it says at the bottom to phone this number for more event information.
I then discovered they hadn't actually progressed beyond the ticket office so hadn't even seen what we had to offer, but were complaining about it anyway. I described the beauty of the day itself, the lush orchards, the house, but to no avail. We didn't have free samples of damson cake to give away, so were therefore shit.
The woman then asked "Can we get something back for our wasted journey? We put money in the car park machine at the top".
"You want your money back?"
"Yes"
"You want your £2 back?"
"Yes"
Unbelievable. They may not have liked our concept of a Damson Weekend but they had actually used the car park. You don’t get your money back from town centre car parks because you didn’t find what you wanted in the High Street. And we are a charity. Still, I am an exemplar of customer care. I have been on a course. With great ostentatiousness I opened the cash tin to extract their £2.
“Here’s your £2 refund, with our apologies for your being ‘misled’”.
I returned to my wheelbarrow of damsons in the orchard. A sheep was eating the fruits of my labours. I looked around me - it is usually at moments just like these that someone will appear to tell me how lucky I am to work here.
This year Free Entry Day coincided with our Damson Weekend, and some beautiful autumnal weather, so we were mobbed. So many people – so many of whom had no particular love or respect for heritage and the environment, but, hey, it was free! – meant a lot of wear and tear on the house and grounds. The toilets had that outdoor music festival feel and there were plastic bottles and rubbish strewn throughout the gardens.
There was also some confusion about how much of the day was free. Many people wanted free damsons as well as free entry. “It didn’t say anything about having to pay for the damsons on your sign!” I had been under the impression that the concept of Pick Your Own was a well known one, but maybe all orchard owners and vendors of fruit have to contend with this. Maybe lots of people think the Pick Your Own signs are a genuine plea for passersby to gather all this annoying fruit and take it away and if money changes hands at all it should be going into their pockets for providing this service. I have learnt, over the years, that signs of any kind, no matter where you site them or how you word them, provide a source of unparalleled confusion in certain people.
That sunny afternoon I was busily picking damsons to bag up and sell for those people who did not want to pick their own, when my radio squawked. “Doris, can you come to the ticket office?” Aha, I thought, I bet it's a difficult customer to deal with.
I was right. A frowning couple, wearing dark glasses that never came off during our entire exchange. Their body language told me all I needed to know.
"Hello, can I help?" I asked, with my widest professional smile.
"Yes. There's an Apple Day at Somewhere Else today. The same day as your Damson Day. Can you tell me what the main difference is between your day and their Apple Day?"
"Um...Is it that they have apples and we have damsons?"
They did not find this remark as witty and charming as I did.
They went on to complain that whereas Apple Days have apple tasting, apple products, apple varieties to identify, apple experts and a whole plethora of apple-related activities, all we were offering was the chance to pick damsons and buy jam. They felt "misled". They kept brandishing the property leaflet at me, pointing at the events listing that says "Damson Weekend". They were cross that we hadn't specified exactly what the event was. They had made all sorts of assumptions about what a Damson Weekend should entail and were angry that their fantasy damson world, complete with damson parades and damson themed white knuckle rides, had not been actualized. At which point I interrupted to say that a press release had gone into all the local papers (and – oh joy - my colleague happened to have the newspaper article on hand to prove my point) which explained EXACTLY what to expect on the day. I had also been on BBC Radio Local to tell people EXACTLY what to expect on the day. They stuttered to a halt, for just a moment. But the woman rallied with "Well, yes, but not everyone reads the paper or listens to the radio".
“True” I said, “but you'll never reach absolutely every single person on the planet.”
And as for the property leaflet she kept flapping about in my face, I explained that we have to print those a year in advance, so no details are given on any of the events, as things often change in the interim, which is why it says at the bottom to phone this number for more event information.
I then discovered they hadn't actually progressed beyond the ticket office so hadn't even seen what we had to offer, but were complaining about it anyway. I described the beauty of the day itself, the lush orchards, the house, but to no avail. We didn't have free samples of damson cake to give away, so were therefore shit.
The woman then asked "Can we get something back for our wasted journey? We put money in the car park machine at the top".
"You want your money back?"
"Yes"
"You want your £2 back?"
"Yes"
Unbelievable. They may not have liked our concept of a Damson Weekend but they had actually used the car park. You don’t get your money back from town centre car parks because you didn’t find what you wanted in the High Street. And we are a charity. Still, I am an exemplar of customer care. I have been on a course. With great ostentatiousness I opened the cash tin to extract their £2.
“Here’s your £2 refund, with our apologies for your being ‘misled’”.
I returned to my wheelbarrow of damsons in the orchard. A sheep was eating the fruits of my labours. I looked around me - it is usually at moments just like these that someone will appear to tell me how lucky I am to work here.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Closed Season
Well, that’s October over and done with. November sees us in that wonderful, and all too brief, period of time when the house is closed to the public.
No more visitors (apart from a few Christmas events) until March! Well, no more legitimate visitors. Have already had a couple of opportunistic visitors who managed to bypass the closed signs, locked ticket office, deserted car park and then saunter into the house for a bit of a chat with the alarms engineer. This will happen frequently over the winter. When I have to leave the gates unlocked so that workmen can get in, opportunistic visitors soon follow. They will cheerfully pick their way over trailing cords from electrical appliances, weave their way between the step ladders and building detritus, somehow failing to notice the dust sheets covering the contents of the house, and utter those immortal words “Are you open?”
Having persuaded them that, contrary to the – admittedly confusing – outward appearances of scaffolding, builders vans and enormous "No Entry" signs, we are in fact not open at the moment, I returned to the scene of devastation that was previously my office. McColleague and I were having a clear out. Apparently my Jenga-with-box-files storage system is unsafe. As is my habit of storing heavy and sharp-edged items on the stupidly high shelf.
So, it all had to go. The wardens were pleased, they love getting hold of stuff they can burn. You have to put big labels on things you just want them to put in the shed, saying “DO NOT BURN!” We have learned this through bitter experience.
Should be a corking bonfire night. Especially if they leave the cans of paint and batteries in with the boxes.
No more visitors (apart from a few Christmas events) until March! Well, no more legitimate visitors. Have already had a couple of opportunistic visitors who managed to bypass the closed signs, locked ticket office, deserted car park and then saunter into the house for a bit of a chat with the alarms engineer. This will happen frequently over the winter. When I have to leave the gates unlocked so that workmen can get in, opportunistic visitors soon follow. They will cheerfully pick their way over trailing cords from electrical appliances, weave their way between the step ladders and building detritus, somehow failing to notice the dust sheets covering the contents of the house, and utter those immortal words “Are you open?”
Having persuaded them that, contrary to the – admittedly confusing – outward appearances of scaffolding, builders vans and enormous "No Entry" signs, we are in fact not open at the moment, I returned to the scene of devastation that was previously my office. McColleague and I were having a clear out. Apparently my Jenga-with-box-files storage system is unsafe. As is my habit of storing heavy and sharp-edged items on the stupidly high shelf.
So, it all had to go. The wardens were pleased, they love getting hold of stuff they can burn. You have to put big labels on things you just want them to put in the shed, saying “DO NOT BURN!” We have learned this through bitter experience.
Should be a corking bonfire night. Especially if they leave the cans of paint and batteries in with the boxes.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Excuse me....
One of the hardest aspects of the job is having to continually accost people. Outside our opening hours I have to ensure the security of the site and accost anyone who shouldn’t be there. It’s hard when you just want to sit and enjoy your moment off.
So, on an almost daily basis, a variation of the following exchange will occur:
Me (having had to accost somebody strolling through the gardens): “Hello! Can I help you?”
Naughty visitor: “Oh, we’re just having a look round”.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid we’re closed”.
“Oh it’s OK, we don’t want to come into the house, we just want to look at the outside”.
“Ah, I'm sorry, we’re closed."
"Even the outside?"
"Yes. Sorry!"
"I thought you were open all year round."
"The parkland is. It’s open every day, dawn to dusk. But the house and gardens are closed today. That’s why the gates are locked and the signs say we’re closed”.
“I am a member”
“That’s great! Thank you for your support. I’m afraid we’re still closed”.
“But I’ve come all the way from Inverness, just to see this place”.
“Oh dear. If only you’d rung first! Or looked online! Or read the handbook you undoubtedly have, being a member. Or read the numerous signs as you climbed over the gates! Then you would have known not to come at 6.30 on a closed day.”
Variations on this include the ever amusing “Are you open?” asked by someone who has navigated two sets of padlocked gates, an empty car park, through deserted orchards and somehow found their way into my back garden. These people would ruin the apocalyptic feel of “empty world” films like 28 Days Later or Day of the Triffids, with their unfailing optimism in the face of all available evidence to the contrary.
There is also the annoying “But can I have a free tour anyway?” approach. This is when I’ve asked people to leave, as we’re closed, and I want to go out and enjoy my moment off, and they ask “So, how old is the house?” or other site specific questions. I don’t want to talk about the history of the house for the next 20 minutes! I just want to get to the supermarket for more tea bags. No crafty learning for free! Be gone!
My personal favourites, though, are the ones who decide to just brazen it out. They tell lies of breathtaking audacity. “It doesn’t say that in the handbook” they’ll say. Or “It doesn’t say that on your sign”. It pushes you into a “yes it does/no it doesn’t” Punch and Judy routine if you’re not careful. You can try and do the English, polite, customer care thing: “Oh, I’m sure it does say we’re closed in January. Perhaps your handbook is out of date?” but when faced with “It fucking does not” where is there left to go? It’s a bold approach and when performed well can leave me so insecure in my own belief system I have to go and check the signs, or handbook entry, even though I know what they say. I wrote it myself, after all.
And the absolute worst is when I end up having to accost someone, in my most authoritative manner, whilst holding an ice cream in one hand, a deck chair in the other, on my way for a bit of relaxation in the garden, while the dog undermines me by lolloping about in insanely cheery manner and peeing at inappropriate moments.
So, on an almost daily basis, a variation of the following exchange will occur:
Me (having had to accost somebody strolling through the gardens): “Hello! Can I help you?”
Naughty visitor: “Oh, we’re just having a look round”.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid we’re closed”.
“Oh it’s OK, we don’t want to come into the house, we just want to look at the outside”.
“Ah, I'm sorry, we’re closed."
"Even the outside?"
"Yes. Sorry!"
"I thought you were open all year round."
"The parkland is. It’s open every day, dawn to dusk. But the house and gardens are closed today. That’s why the gates are locked and the signs say we’re closed”.
“I am a member”
“That’s great! Thank you for your support. I’m afraid we’re still closed”.
“But I’ve come all the way from Inverness, just to see this place”.
“Oh dear. If only you’d rung first! Or looked online! Or read the handbook you undoubtedly have, being a member. Or read the numerous signs as you climbed over the gates! Then you would have known not to come at 6.30 on a closed day.”
Variations on this include the ever amusing “Are you open?” asked by someone who has navigated two sets of padlocked gates, an empty car park, through deserted orchards and somehow found their way into my back garden. These people would ruin the apocalyptic feel of “empty world” films like 28 Days Later or Day of the Triffids, with their unfailing optimism in the face of all available evidence to the contrary.
There is also the annoying “But can I have a free tour anyway?” approach. This is when I’ve asked people to leave, as we’re closed, and I want to go out and enjoy my moment off, and they ask “So, how old is the house?” or other site specific questions. I don’t want to talk about the history of the house for the next 20 minutes! I just want to get to the supermarket for more tea bags. No crafty learning for free! Be gone!
My personal favourites, though, are the ones who decide to just brazen it out. They tell lies of breathtaking audacity. “It doesn’t say that in the handbook” they’ll say. Or “It doesn’t say that on your sign”. It pushes you into a “yes it does/no it doesn’t” Punch and Judy routine if you’re not careful. You can try and do the English, polite, customer care thing: “Oh, I’m sure it does say we’re closed in January. Perhaps your handbook is out of date?” but when faced with “It fucking does not” where is there left to go? It’s a bold approach and when performed well can leave me so insecure in my own belief system I have to go and check the signs, or handbook entry, even though I know what they say. I wrote it myself, after all.
And the absolute worst is when I end up having to accost someone, in my most authoritative manner, whilst holding an ice cream in one hand, a deck chair in the other, on my way for a bit of relaxation in the garden, while the dog undermines me by lolloping about in insanely cheery manner and peeing at inappropriate moments.
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