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.

Finally. After three seemingly endless months, my laptop is fixed. I’m glad to have it back.

It’s been a tough time without it: we all know internet browsing at work is never as fun, there is the constant threat of someone coming up behind you to ask about that report that was due before lunch while you are sniggering at a particularly ridiculous video of an intrepid Manx on lolcats.

All the more awkward is asking friends if you can use their laptop. It’s a question that makes me feel dirty, almost on a par with asking someone if you can use their toothbrush. As for being the laptop giver, there is something about letting people use your pride and joy. If the laptop is the comfort blanket of the 21st Century, it’s like letting someone wrap themselves in your, well, comfort blanket. Sometimes you can detect a certain hesitancy, the moment where they are weighing up the possibility that you might hit a key and smoke will start billowing out of it, or even worse, that you have absolutely no computer etiquette and will start using the thing as a tennis racket.

Maybe that suspicion is justified. What are we going to do on it anyway? Write up that urgent work report that is due tomorrow by lunch? Not likely is it. What is more likely is that you’ll be on Facebook checking how many people are attending the super-awesome party that you posted, or having a look on Twitter to see what everyone you are following had for dinner. You know, all those things that could wait until later but for some inexplicable reason seem really urgent all of a sudden. So why give your computer to someone else, it’s only wasting time that you could be valuably spending setting up that group for lovers of Coke Zero.

So now everyone has their own laptop. The lounge scene is now one where housemates sit around in silence, the only sound being the tap of keys on the keyboard and the occasional “hehe, nice profile pic”, followed by frantic bandwidth usage as everyone in the room comments on ‘that wicked picture of Kevin’.

Anyway, i’m off for a power-half-hour of FAIL blog lols, later…