mcgroarity the mystery waitress
Afternoon in the town of Newbridge.
The mighty Heelers saunters into the Costa Cafe.
Maisie McGroarity, the rudest waitress in the Whitewater Centre, and perhaps in all Europe, glares balefully from behind the counter.
Three days in a row she has deprived me of the ten percent discount which management in this cafe have vouchsafed me.
They love me here.
Truly they do.
All except Maisie.
Maisie has taken a random notion that I am the cause of some deep seated unhappiness that afflicts her.
Apparently discounts will be the source of her revenge.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, I have asked for my discount.
But on each occasion when I got back to my seat, I realised she hadn't given it to me.
Or at least I thought she hadn't given it to me.
I was never absolutely sure.
For the first two days I made excuses for her. On the third day I made modest efforts to remind her without offending her. At the same time I tried to be exact in my own mind about how much money I'd given her and what she'd given back.
I don't think I got my discount any of the days.
But I never had a great head for maths.
I am the sort of person who can't remember how much money he has in his pocket even when in circumstances like the present ones, I'm making a special effort.
Has she got it in for me?
I genuinely think she has.
(Ere Maisie, leave that Heelers alone - Pink Floyd note.)
Listen my gentle friends of the internet.
There is no reason for Maisie to hate me.
Honestly there isn't.
She's 20 years old. Red haired. Good looking in a perpetually angry sort of way.
I have never been anything but a gentleman in my dealings with her.
I'm telling you folks, aside from my visits to the cafe, she doesn't even know me.
Could it be she is just one of nature's haters?
Today she looks at me with a peculiarly searching stare.
It's as though she can read my soul.
I try to make my big rubber face hide the various unpleasant emotions that are struggling to express themselves on the canvas of my visage.
I have no wish to tangle with Maisie.
But dammit I will have my discount.
"A caffe latte," I say in a neutral voice. "And I have a discount card for that."
I show her the card.
Maisie makes the coffee.
Takes the money.
Gives me change.
"I'll take the receipt," I tell her.
She hands me a receipt.
There is a discount listed on it.
I go to my seat.
I drink my latte.
I leave the Costa Cafe.
As an afterthought I pull the receipt from my pocket and check it again.
The time is recorded on the top left hand corner.
It shows three hours ago.
In my heart of hearts I know...
Curses McGroarity.
You got me again.
Stop press
Final Sports Results, Thursday 21 June 2007.
Man United 1, Chelsea 1.
Wolverhampton Wanderers 3, Brighton Hove Albion 2.
Maisie McGroarity 4, Heeler The Peeler 0.
Hamas, Fatah, late kick off.
The mighty Heelers saunters into the Costa Cafe.
Maisie McGroarity, the rudest waitress in the Whitewater Centre, and perhaps in all Europe, glares balefully from behind the counter.
Three days in a row she has deprived me of the ten percent discount which management in this cafe have vouchsafed me.
They love me here.
Truly they do.
All except Maisie.
Maisie has taken a random notion that I am the cause of some deep seated unhappiness that afflicts her.
Apparently discounts will be the source of her revenge.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, I have asked for my discount.
But on each occasion when I got back to my seat, I realised she hadn't given it to me.
Or at least I thought she hadn't given it to me.
I was never absolutely sure.
For the first two days I made excuses for her. On the third day I made modest efforts to remind her without offending her. At the same time I tried to be exact in my own mind about how much money I'd given her and what she'd given back.
I don't think I got my discount any of the days.
But I never had a great head for maths.
I am the sort of person who can't remember how much money he has in his pocket even when in circumstances like the present ones, I'm making a special effort.
Has she got it in for me?
I genuinely think she has.
(Ere Maisie, leave that Heelers alone - Pink Floyd note.)
Listen my gentle friends of the internet.
There is no reason for Maisie to hate me.
Honestly there isn't.
She's 20 years old. Red haired. Good looking in a perpetually angry sort of way.
I have never been anything but a gentleman in my dealings with her.
I'm telling you folks, aside from my visits to the cafe, she doesn't even know me.
Could it be she is just one of nature's haters?
Today she looks at me with a peculiarly searching stare.
It's as though she can read my soul.
I try to make my big rubber face hide the various unpleasant emotions that are struggling to express themselves on the canvas of my visage.
I have no wish to tangle with Maisie.
But dammit I will have my discount.
"A caffe latte," I say in a neutral voice. "And I have a discount card for that."
I show her the card.
Maisie makes the coffee.
Takes the money.
Gives me change.
"I'll take the receipt," I tell her.
She hands me a receipt.
There is a discount listed on it.
I go to my seat.
I drink my latte.
I leave the Costa Cafe.
As an afterthought I pull the receipt from my pocket and check it again.
The time is recorded on the top left hand corner.
It shows three hours ago.
In my heart of hearts I know...
Curses McGroarity.
You got me again.
Stop press
Final Sports Results, Thursday 21 June 2007.
Man United 1, Chelsea 1.
Wolverhampton Wanderers 3, Brighton Hove Albion 2.
Maisie McGroarity 4, Heeler The Peeler 0.
Hamas, Fatah, late kick off.
posted by heelers | 1:48 AM
2 Comments:
Red hair, a bit of attitude -- mmm, that sounds like the woman my son's been looking for. (Especially the red hair.)
Dis is mighty story! :) Especially when I think of poor U dyin for Ur lovely cafe latte...and rude waitress! Ur coffee cant taste d same den!
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