Went into the post office sorting office today where an utterly mirthless individual lurks in a grotto of jiffybags and bubblewrap and boxes, and in some kind of cruel parody of the Santa Claus tradition grudgingly hands people packages (subject to satisfactory identification and a signature).

I’m not particularly widely travelled, but so far Britain seems to be unique in the level of resentment displayed towards customers. We find ourselves apologising for being in the way of shelf stackers, who will be paid whether they stack the shelf or wait for you to finish choosing an item, to bartenders for interrupting their conversation to get them to pass you a bottle of beer from behind the bar, and to newsagents who would prefer to finish reading their article in the paper or chatting to Mrs. Smith about the death of her dog than to take some money off you for 20 Camel Lights and a can of Dandelion and Burdock.

When I went into the sorting office this morning, there was no queue, and nobody behind the counter. There was, however, a bellpush with a cheery sign next to it saying “Please Ring For Assistance”. So I rang. For assistance.

The troll stirred from his cave. FEE FIE FOE FUM! He shouted. (look, it’s MY story, my troll can say Giant things if I want). Actually what happened was the fellow on counter duty emerged from the back room, and looked at me as if he had been taught the Glance Of Death Of 1000 Pains by an ancient mystic, and was hoping this would be the time it actually worked. After he looked at me he stuck out his hand for the package slip and my ID, though he didn’t bother looking at me during this transaction so it was all a little bit grabby and I got the impression I had mortally wounded him, say by attempting botty-sex with his beloved pet terrier, or by selling his entire family into slavery on a distant continent and shipping them off before he could say goodbye.

When he went to scrabble huffily in the grotto, I noticed a second sign, laser printed and laminated.

Dear Customer,

Please do not ring the bell immediately when waiting to be served. We are in the back room sorting packages.

Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.

I saw the sign, and that explained the huffiness, and before I could stop myself — oh, the shame! I can’t believe I’m confessing this in a public forum! — I apologised.

Yes. I said sorry for ringing the bell for assistance.

WHAT?!?!?!?

That is wrong on SO many levels. How about:

Dear Customer,

We may not be aware of your presence unless you ring this bell. In order to allow us the impression that everything is under control, please pretend not to be present for at least 5 minutes before ringing the bell to let us know you are here.

or

Dear Customer,

All our other customers are more important than you, even though they are at work, at home, at the shops, or otherwise getting on with their lives while you are stood in a small, dull sorting office customer counter. Even though our other customers may be completely oblivious to the fact they have a package on its way, please do not get any ideas about getting served, we will serve you when we are good and ready. In the event that you magically know that we haven’t noticed you (as opposed to just being exceptionaly busy) please ring the bell. Please do not ring the bell if we have noticed you but just haven’t indicated that we have noticed you in any way.

So, I will be making up a laminated sign of my own to stick up on the wall opposite the counter.

Dear Royal Mail Employee,

Please note that the bell means “I am here” and not “Come at once you snivelling serf”. Please do not be offended if a customer rings the bell as the customer may not be able to see you. Please remember that the customer may have other places to be. The customer may have a job like yourself, and may be in a hurry to avoid the displeasure of his or her superiors.

In the event that the bell rings, it is suggested that you GET THE FUCK OVER YOURSELF AND ATTEND TO THE CUSTOMER AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE.