English People Are Rather Amusing Indeed, Episode 3

Or, My Wallet Waterloo – A Story

Idly wandering in the sun on my lunchbreak, I finished my cigarette and contemplated acquiring a sandwich. As I entered the sandwich shop and looked for my wallet I discovered to my dismay that it wasn’t in my bag. I went back into the office, traipsed up to my third-floor desk, hoping hoping hoping that it would be there, but alas, ‘twas not to be.

There was a wee moment of panic, as I thought longingly of all the useful things in my wallet - like my keycard, and my travelcard, and all those very important pieces of paper that I haven’t got around to throwing out yet. And the pennies! Annoying as they are, right then I wanted those three metric tons of copper at the bottom of my purse so badly it hurt.

Relax, I thought. I mentally retraced my steps, and remembered that I had purchased coffee this morning on my way to work, so the most recent sighting of my wallet was at one of the many coffee shops at Waterloo station. I’m tempted to take a leaf out of the book of our good friend Samuel and describe my coffee here, but I think I’ll resist for now. I would like to investigate Samuel’s opinion as to the merit of the extra shot one day though, someone remind me.

I pushed my way through the lunchtime crowds at Waterloo and back to the coffee shop where I had purchased my morning caffeine hit. I waited in the lengthy queue, as is the custom in these parts, and gazed at the gorgeous baristas, all of whom, thanks to some happy accident of EU immigration laws, have sharp Slavic cheekbones and spectacularly husky Eastern European accents.

I waited until I could speak with the barista who had attended me that morning. Thankfully, she remembered me and explained in her lusciously broken English that they had handed my wallet in to the station reception and then gave me some vague directions.

After taking a few wrong turns, I eventually found my way to station reception, whereupon I met Ms Cranky.

Ms Cranky was very busy and important. I stood there for some time while she attended to matters far more critical than mine.

I explained my situation and she affirmed that they did indeed receive my wallet this morning. She consulted the lost property sheet, and her face darkened as she saw something that made her even crankier. Apparently, the Lost Property Office (LPO) attendant had failed to sign the transfer sheet to prove that he took receipt of my wallet.

Mindful of the time, and reassuring her that I’m just glad they had it and that it was not wandering around in someone else’s pocket right now, I asked if she could just direct me to the LPO, so I could collect the wallet anyway. She glared at me.

“You just wait there.”

I subsided obediently, stood and waited.

First she attended to her walkie talkie, trying to get hold of Paul, the hapless non-signing LPO dude. Someone reported that Paul was on lunch and she screeched at that person to get him BACK, NOW, because she had to talk to him.

Minutes ticked by, I gazed at the ceiling and hummed to myself while Ms Cranky fumed. The phone rang. She picked it up angrily and started to bawl Paul out for failing to sign the register. I stand there, wondering what on earth this has to do with me. Eventually, her wrath spent, she slammed down the phone, read me the contents of my wallet as per the inventory they took that morning, and finally, FINALLY, gave me directions to the LPO.

Again, it took me some time to find it. Waterloo is a bit of a maze, and if you take the wrong exit you’re not only heading in the wrong direction, it is so difficult to find your way back that it is as if you have stepped into another dimension of space and time (the fourth dimension, perhaps?). The LPO was right at the end of a long, dusty, smelly tunnel.

Paul, the hapless LPO attendant, was the kind of guy for whom the word ‘gormless’ was invented. Drab and grey, with a round face and huge glasses, he looked EXACTLY like the kind of guy who would get very, very attached to his stapler.

He, too, had both a walkie-talkie and a portable phone. As I joined the queue, he was in the midst of a lengthy conversation that seemed to displease him greatly. He would listen intently, then pull the phone away from his ear, gaze out at the assembled queue of people, shake his head in disbelief, and then listen again. Possibly he was receiving another bollocking from Ms Cranky, it was hard to tell.

I could SEE my wallet by this stage, it was on the desk behind the glass window.

I have another lengthy wait in this particular queue, listening, my tummy grumbling, as the woman in front of me had a detailed conversation with Mr Gormless. She painstakingly explained each phase of her morning commute, and offered various hypotheses as to where and when it could have been that she misplaced her plastic wallet filled with paper (activity sheets for her primary school class, apparently). She and Mr Gormless discussed the degree of likelihood of each possibility at some length, but alas, she went away empty handed. I thought sadly of those kiddies whose afternoon would be tragically activity-free.

At last it was my turn. I pointed at my wallet and asked for it politely. Mr Gormless picked it up and held it tantalisingly close to the hole in the window. I reached out to take it, whereupon he told me that there was a £2 recovery fee.

I laughed. Ha! Who would have thought, Mr Gormless had a sense of humour!

Only, not so much. He looked at me impassively, and my giggles subsided.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“REALLY?”

“Yes.”

I laughed again, only this time in disbelief. “£2?” “Yes.”

“Okay then. Well, if you’ll just pass me my wallet… “

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“What?”

“I can’t give you the item until you pay the fee.”

“But…whuh…how can I…” I spluttered. Surely he couldn’t be serious.

But he definitely was.

There was a tense pause.

“Well, sir. It appears we are at an impasse.” (I couldn’t resist).

“Yes, it does.” His face was expressionless, he gave away nothing.

Eventually, after some scintillating back and forth discussion, he was persuaded to push it part way through the window so that I could extract the fee. Once I had it in my hands, I don’t think I need to describe the overwhelming strength of the urge to turn and flee that washed over me.

However, despite my frustration, I thought of Ms Cranky upstairs and how this guy was obviously having a bad day already. I wouldn’t take my protest out on this hapless minion, I would pursue it with the proper authorities. I did, however, laugh loudly as I gingerly extracted £2 and pushed it through, shaking my head in disbelief.

English people are hilarious.

The End.