The other day, I left Subway in a state of dismay. Even though what i was holding in my hand was the result of a set of ingredients I had hand-picked, the way in which it had been assembled had left me worried that some form of abuse had occurred.

After jabbing the bread repeatedly with his blade and tearing it apart, the server threw the fillings I requested into my sub, in the same way I imagine a spurned ex would throw the clothes of a lover out of a top floor window into the bonfire in the garden below. All that was missing were the shouts of abuse about how much of a bastard I was, but I’m pretty much convinced she was saying it in her head. It was a sad excuse for a sub that I was given. Is it possible that mechanically reclaimed chicken gets treated with more respect than the average Italian BMT? Poor IBMTs. All they want is to be a delicious sandwich.

A visit to a McDonalds a couple of weeks ago left me in a similar state. I was in a jovially pleasant mood walking in, but as i reached the counter I was barked at: “WELCOME TO MCDONALDS, WHAT’S YOUR ORDER”. Before I had the time to say “Um, well, could I have..” the server, obviously impatient with my desire to speak in sentences, shouted the same question. Startled, I frantically replied “DOUBLE CHEESEBURGER. SMALL FRIES”, which seemed to be an adequate response as no other answers were required. It appears that the “relevant background experience” MaccyD’s asks for in it’s employees would be strict military training, stopping short of saluting of course (in public anyway, I’ve heard Ronald insists upon it behind closed doors).

It would seem that verbal correspondence is an unnecessary commodity in today’s service industry. Whenever I get to the front of the queue at a supermarket checkout I always take my headphones out of my ears as a polite gesture, a sign of openness to communication. It doesn’t seem to matter though, as nowadays the best you will get from your local Asda representative is an ‘ello’, followed by a lightning quick flinging of your purchases at you, and an impatient exhale because you can’t pack quite quickly enough. (I’ve found picking an exotic fruit or vegetable slows the flinging process somewhat: a courgette will only buy you a couple of seconds, but a pomegranate might get you as much as half a minute…)

But all is not lost. My faith was restored on a recent visit to, of all places, Greggs. Ending my request for a steak bake with ‘my love’ seemed to bring out the talkative side in the older woman serving me. She’d apparently had a run in with an abusive customer earlier in the day and offered this while she bagged up my slice: “I’ve been working at this lark for 19 years and I’ve been called all sorts: I been called a fat slag, I been called an old bag. But I just say to them ‘I don’t give a shit mate, i might be old and fat, but at least I’m not a wanker’, you know what i mean.”

Sometimes, I guess the silent approach to service does have it’s benefits for the customer.