First week of the Proms, oh the joys (!). As a new resident to the deliciously superficial Lytham (don’t you DARE make the mistake of using the town's full title, Lytham St Anne’s), I am unfamiliar to what this quaint seaside town is like during the festival period. For the blissfully ignorant reader, Proms is also known as Lytham Festival. Traditionally a week where big acts (and big drinkers) flock to the coastline, has now been extended to two weeks to make up for the past cancellations to a little pandemic called Covid-19. Furious mutterings from the locals imply that it will revert back to one week next year.
Headliners include the golden oldies of Diana Ross, Duran Duran, Nile Rogers & Chic etc. etc. Millennials that had grown up on low-cut jeans, blue-toothing ringtones, swooping fringe haircuts and Tamagotchi, all flooded in for the noughties crush, Snow Patrol. I am certain most people only wanted to see ‘Chasing Cars’ perform, create a bumpy recording on their smart phone (which mostly consists of other people singing loudly and out of tune), then immediately to sod off and beat the car park rush.
The irony of it being my first experience of Lytham Festival is that I am unable to experience it. As a waitress for one of Lytham’s many boozy ‘brasseries’, I am working through the fortnight festivities.
Branded as the highlight of Lytham’s calendar, it is an astounding chance for local businesses to bleed tourists dry (whether being over-priced pints or excessive accessories). It was four days of heavy drinking and partying- until the Sunday crash when Lytham was eerily quiet.
The general order of service was a steady flow of customers throughout the day then proceeding to get busier from 4 o’clock onwards. Peaking at about 7pm then ghost of ‘somewhere better to be’ swept throughout the boulevard. By 8-8:30pm as people made their tipsy way to the Main (and only) podium. I do not exaggerate when I claim that people stumbled to the stage. I saw one gentleman being assertively propped up by his partner as they warbled through the backstreets.
Police are scattered everywhere. A strange sight in a usually well-to-do seaside town (bar the cocaine snorting side-hustle of many affluent residents). They are needed; I saw a few fights and even one woman being dragged off by the police, shouting "I want my boyfriend". The police officer retorted, "well, he doesn't want you". British culture is truly delightful.
My experience as a waitress around this time has not been too unlike any other week. I have experienced unnecessary touching of my body when manoeuvring drink trays between intoxicated and incompetent men. Customers wave at me furiously, click their fingers to grab my attention. Or alternatively, talk to each other as if I simply do not exist: their drinks orders levitating inconspicuously next to them as they wait for them to float neatly down to their right hand-side. Which do I prefer? Being treated as sub-human or un-human? It’s a tough call.
Another dynamic is being noticed. Too noticed. Being beckoned over, being called at: “Darling, can I order another drink?”. It’s not a request, it’s a demand. Sometimes, you get customers that drink you in. Their eyes linger too long, looking you up and down. I feel my face blushing, my school shirt holding me hostage to claustrophobia. A bad interaction throws off your balance (a necessary physical trait for the job) for the rest of the shift.
When I stop and think about it, it's difficult task walking up to customers and thinking, are they going to see me as a person or a just a female body. A pretty face in uniform to serve them, meet their demands.
(Disclaimer: Not all men are like that. Sometimes I get compliments about my eye makeup, and it honestly makes my day).
I am not the only one to encounter such challenges. In the doorway of the restaurant, a regular customer whisked out his debit card towards my manager and simply stated, “Card”. Looking point blank at her in the face. Somewhere in those large, harrowed out eyes, this gentleman believed that saying a command, nay, uttering the name of an object towards another human being was sufficient for getting what he wanted. Quite toddler-like behaviour.
Warning: the universal indication for the bill, the gesturing of signing a check, is on the rise. I thought that society had agreed this was a mortifying and unacceptable behaviour. Sadly not.
Why is it that customers often resort to their infant selves when faced in a hospitality environment? Perhaps it comes from a child-like indulgence of the novelty of being ‘served’ again. As if you’ve been transported back into those days from childhood where mum or dad is cooking you a 'special tea' for being good. The table laid out all for you, napkins to catch those mischievous crumbs, being fed and watered, and then mopping up any mess you’ve made as you continue to your next adventure.
But, sure creating a service is all about the hospitality sector? Surely, it’s about being welcoming? And, indeed, the customers are paying for a service after all. Of course, dear reader, and I would wholeheartedly agree.
The root of the word ‘hospitality’ comes from Latin ‘hospes’. It refers to both the host and the guest, as a mutual and reciprocal relationship. It’s hard to demonstrate genial, sociable and cordial relations to another party that speaks and treats you like a lesser being.
Later that day, a gentleman ordered a Peroni at the bar. He waited for his beer to be poured and served, then looked at my colleague (a younger girl), and proceeded to walk straight out the door. M looked at me and whispered, “Does he want me to follow him?”. She ended up picking up the beer and walking out to hand it to him on an outside table. Delegating the waiting staff to pick up and carry something you have paid for without even speaking to them. The entitled behaviour of people is purely baffling.
My ex-boyfriend used to claim (and still does) that working in a service job should be compulsory: like conscription or jury duty, but less of the moral high ground. As, always, he is right. Imagine a society where other people can empathise with service workers and see them for what they are: other human beings. Ground-breaking.
Occasionally, a customer may take a liking to you. Wisdom and experience can only guide such a situation. I have neither.
Thursday night, after Snow Patrol, the crowds launched back into Lytham Boulevard and the bar was quickly swamped. Attempting to help with the rush, I was on the tills taking drinks orders whilst the bartenders scrambled. Some mild chaos ensued which left me awkwardly standing, taking orders, not making people's drinks (I’m not cocktail-trained) and taking customer’s payment. It was the second time a curly-haired man came up to the till for a couple of cocktails when he asked for my number.
I am quite an anxious and awkward person. My internal monologue is more internal screaming. How do you respond to that? "Nahhh, you're alright mate". I wasn’t particularly interested in the guy but the awkwardness of rejection was too much to bear. He is a paying customer right in front of me. I don't want to offend him, and I will likely see him again.
I am fairly liberal with my phone number; I think it comes from my desperate appeal to be liked. It’s almost a reverse trophy: giving someone my number because they have paid attention to me. Vain? Probably. But it's my anxiety which prevents me from making a rational decision with logical conclusions.
In short, I panicked: I wrote my number down on a piece of till roll. Then, flight mode activated, I walk with purpose to the other end of the bar to escape the situation. I had forgotten, of course, that the guy is still waiting on his drinks order. He wasn’t going to leave the counter and I had launched myself firmly behind it. Great. Pretending to be busy, I stride over, avoiding eye contact, and start wiping tables again.
One of my beloved customers, is an older gentleman. He wears beautiful vintage glasses (he brings an extra pair for reading), a flat cap and a blazer. He dresses the same as his wit: sharp. I love a blunt sense of humour and this guy is savage. When I first served him, he thought I was about 17 and called me ‘daft as a brush’. I am 23 years old and have a First Class degree. We have now warmed to each other, and he tells me his story of being a travelling engineer with The Who, living in Vietnam and smuggling coke through Manchester airport. Asking what I want to do when I’m “a big girl” (I reply “I’m already a big girl”), I fumble out a few vague options. He revels in telling me to turn to a life of crime (drugs, perhaps?), or get a big, rich, boulder of a boyfriend that can buy me things and take me travelling. A real character.
We have a great chat. He absolutely roasts me, and I attempt to prove that I’m not as daft as he thinks. He was reading the newspaper and I was peering over his shoulder, trying to read the headlines. We talked about Dominic Raab winking at Angela Raynor in Prime Minister’s Questions. I found it an astounding show of another attempt to patronise and ridicule women in politics. The gentleman rebuked me: “when you’re on your death bed and your life is flashing before your eyes, is this the sort of shit that matters?”. He was telling me that getting sucked into petty politics and Westminster gossip it makes you as vacuous as ‘they’ are. I am still fascinated by the ongoings of politics, but it’s always healthy to have a reality check. Nothing really matters when a few postcodes north, kids in Blackpool are living in utter poverty.
But, of course, no one is perfect. This gentleman believes the toxic narrative, akin to Minister Rachel Maclean, that anyone can just ‘earn more money’. He’s a tough cookie, but I’m working on it.
My favourite customer is a beautiful lady called Sofia. She always comes in a morning with her aging chihuahua, ordering a soya latter and a glass of ice water and lemon. Effortlessly stylish, and delightfully chatty, I make time on shift to talk to her about her life and the people she knows. She invited me to watch the festival with a glass of Pimms from her balcony, which is right on the sea front.
Anxiety strikes again, too nervous to go up, I couldn’t allow myself to text her that I was outside. I watched Lewis Capaldi play a few songs, swear furiously about masturbation, and then went back to work.
The next day, I swanned into work and Sofia was already there, wearing her classic over-sized designer sunglasses. Before I could sheepishly bid her good morning, she was already telling me the events of last night. Watching the concert from her balcony, Lewis Capaldi started taking the mick out of her for being a ‘cheapscate’ by not buying a ticket but watching from her balcony. Then, the stage camera turned and focussed on her balcony apartment. Suddenly Sofia and her friend were on the big screen being projected over the whole of Lytham festival. They waved comically and took it all in good spirit. Whilst she was telling me this tale, an older woman exclaimed “oh, you’re the balcony lady! I must hug you, you’re famous!”. Shen leapt up out of her chair and swooped her arms around Sofia’s small figure. It was a lovely, if slightly invasive, scene.
Sofia said “I was waiting for you, Emily. I was disappointed you didn’t come”. I felt ashamed I had let my nerves get the better of me then. All my affirmations of ‘I will not let my anxiety make decisions for me’ seemed futile. Having an anxious mind means that sometimes you're paralysed to do things you want to do, because you are convinced you're not worth it. Sofia turned to me and said, “You’re actually quite shy, aren’t you?”. Relieved to receive a bit of empathy, I nodded and admitted I am naturally awkward and uneasy. I pray for a second chance and hope there is an opportunity to make it up to her.
Commentaires