The other weekend, we went to Wisley. For those of you that don’t know where or what it is, it’s just down the A3 near Guildford and it’s a massive Royal Horticultural Society garden.
We went there because, despite the atrocious weather and the obvious attraction of a beautiful garden full of spring blooms, there was a craft fair. We took my mother-in –law because the following day was her birthday. She had no idea what she wanted as a pressie, so we were rather hopeful that she might find a small indulgence in one of the craft tents that she would never dream of buying herself but might like us to give her.
Anyway, it was tipping it down when we got there and we decided, after a quick amble round the first tent full of ceramics and painted glass, to get a coffee in the rather posh café. The Hubby and his Mum found a table, and I queued up with the anoraked masses for the cappuccino.
All went well for a few minutes and we all dutifully shunted down the counter towards the hot drinks, occasionally picking up the odd cake or biscuit on the way (strategically placed for our grasping hands much like supermarkets put sweets by the till). The trouble came when we approached the end of the line and whilst waiting for our coffee, gaps opened up between the Gaggia and the tills.
All of a sudden, a short stumpy man dressed, so far as I could see, head to toe in elasticated waist cotton traders clothing, barged in front of me just as I was turning from the coffee machine to move towards the tills. He hadn’t wanted coffee, and so had seen his chance to jump the queue to pay for his cheese sarnie and crisps. Fair do’s, you might say, but not once did he say “excuse me”, “do you mind if I nip in front of you as I don’t want a hot drink” or any other pleasantry which you might expect from the chattering middle classes on a day out. He hadn’t cared who he jostled or barged, only that he was going to shave 30 seconds off his waiting time by getting there first. He was, excuse the language, a rude little git.
Later, going round the remaining tents, time and again there was amazing rudeness from the inhabitants of middle England (that’s a bit like saying the inhabitants of Middle Earth, and we all know what they were like in Lord of the Rings, but let’s not get sidetracked there!). Pushing in front of you, interrupting when you are talking to the stallholder, or speaking to the very talented people who make this lovely stuff like they were serfs.
There is something very unattractive about the middle classes en masse. There is an inate arrogance which makes them think the normal conventions and manners of society do not apply to them when they want something, and which makes them think they are better than everyone else. I really dislike them, or at least having to be in close proximity to them, but unfortunately if you want to go to events like this you have to put up with them.
Despite their rudeness, all in all it was a nice day. Eventually the sun shone, we had a nice long lunch and I bought myself something even if The Hubby’s Mum dithered and couldn’t make up her mind. In the end we gave her cash – how soulless and commercial is that – but what else can you do when someone will never give you an idea and when asked what they might like says “Oh, anything really”.
One year I’m tempted to give her a tin of cat food, just to see what she says! (She doesn’t have a cat!)
I agree. The class of people that are, more often than not, to blame for such rudeness are the very same people who cannot abide it in others. There is a distinct whiff of hypocrisy when these types gather en masse. Living here, Canadians will not put up with rudeness (not that there is a lot of it about) and will quickly tell you so in not uncertain terms. As a result, I have developed less of a tolerance threshold than before and I'm sure that upon returning to the UK for a visit, I will find it hard to keep my mouth shut in such an event as the one you have described. As you say, rude little git!
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