Open Writing

The headmaster of a Dorset comprehensive school said recently that good manners are to be added to the school curriculum.

Pupils are to be instructed in the gentle art of saying ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you.’

Good manners were a compulsory part of my school life. If these were evident, other shortcomings were less noticeable, I found. In spite of this strict endorsement of politeness, I notice that in some areas of adulthood charm and courtesy have undergone a sad decline. Perhaps this subject should also be introduced into the field of adult education.

It has been my misfortune to come into contact with many potentials who would benefit from a refresher course in good manners.

Like the snooty assistant who pounced on our diminutive fifteen-year-old as she was diligently selecting the correct batch of ‘Key Notes’ in preparation for her GCE exams.

‘You won’t be taking those for quite a while,’ she sniffed, snatching the notes from my embarrassed daughter. This assistant’s powers of observation must have been lying especially dormant that day, because she also failed to notice diminutive me browsing through the paperbacks opposite. Fortunately what I lack in stature I make up for in assertiveness. Suffice it to say we left no ‘Key Note’ unturned and I made certain my daughter had seen all the cards before she selected the one she required and we swept out.

These superior dignitaries who keep the sight of their front teeth a secret between their mirrors and themselves are becoming a silent feature in some establishments, where the ‘We aim to please’ has been replaced by a ‘Get Lost’ attitude.

Journalist Lynda Lee-Potter visited a London boutique. Her daughter, unable to make a decision, said she would look round first then come back and try on the £39 coat again later. ‘Don’t bother,’ was the salesgirl’s helpful hint.

In one town centre chemists an assistant tried to blame us for her low IQ. Two daughters and I were choosing a bikini. Our buxom thirteen-year-old was trying to persuade me to purchase what looked like three small triangles and a piece of string. ‘It’s been reduced a lot,’ she coaxed. Reduced! It looked to me as though it had been demolished. In my poverty-stricken opinion the price of £1 a triangle seemed grossly exorbitant, even if she could squeeze into it.

We were in the middle of this debate when a burly till-pusher turned on us and rasped, ‘Will you be quiet I can’t reckon up.’ With such a handicap why take a job involving cash? I was careful not to ask, as she was rather a big girl for her impediment.

Serving food can have a disastrous effect on good manners. Some friends decided to treat an elderly parent to dinner at a regal country pub about seven miles from town. Although months previously this had been booked and confirmed later by phone, the manager had no record of it. After making them feel like confidence tricksters out for an easy table he finally, after much dragging about of chairs and other ostentations, led them to a secluded table, away from the ‘registered’ clientele. After an hour they realised it must also be secluded from the waitresses. At last they attracted the attention of one who condescendingly asked what they wanted.

By this time most of the items were ‘off’ and she made it quite clear she was hoping to be the same as soon as possible. When asked what kind of soup she had brought, ‘I don’t know,’ was her amazed reply.

Not wishing to make their elderly guest feel more unhappy than she already was, they paid up and left without throwing anything at the manager. But they told all their friends who told all theirs, so it is likely this establishment will have less business to confuse in future.

Although some of my best friends are hairdressers they are not immune to this bad-manner cult. I had the ill-choice to be overpowered by one on holiday. In her voluminous caftan and faded jeans supporting an Afro hairstyle she looked like a curly Demis Roussos from behind.

But the front view cancelled any frivolity usually associated with corpulence. Her lips were folded into a tight narrow crease. A lifetime of holding hairgrips between her teeth had obviously taken their toll.

Giving me a Humphrey Bogart grimace she spoke the only four words of our alliance, ‘How dya want it?’

My hands were trapped beneath the salon cape at the time, which caused me some amusement as I fumbled about trying to free them to describe my ‘casual flick back.’ These antics seemed to depress her even more, but I had no choice but to keep uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the time.

I left wearing my highly bouffant, stiffly lacquered hair-do like a new hat, taking the long way back to the chalet in case the children saw me before I had time to dismantle it. Actually I was pleasantly surprised how manageable it was once I had tamed it.

*

‘Do you think you look beautiful or ugly?’ asked one of ours the other breakfast time as I threw my kitchen mirror a charming smile.

Answers to these sort of posers have to be prepared carefully; one can so easily be trapped. ‘Ugly,’ I lied.

‘You’re right’ she said.