My second experience with awful customer service was a jumped-up little twerp who worked for a well-known supermarket. The lad, who looked about twelve, was in charge of the self-service scanners but refused to let me leave my paid-for shopping with him when I needed to nip back for something. He said he couldn’t watch it because I’d paid for it.
“But I'm only going over there,” I said, pointing to an aisle a few feet away. “Yes, but how can I prove you’ve paid?”
“Er, because I have a receipt?” I said waving it in front of him.
But the man-child wouldn't play ball, so I left my heavy shopping with a security man by the door, who rolled his eyes when I explained about the juvenile jobsworth. I nipped back for some bottles of beer, paid for them, but promptly dropped a bottle on the floor.
The trumped-up toddler came dashing over to tell me off. Sadly, the cleaners had left for the day, so he had to clean up the beery mess himself.
“I wouldn't have dropped it if you'd let me leave my bag here in the first place,” I quipped.
Karma is a very strange thing indeed!