Pearoast
A reposted story of how my mother was once the customer from hell... but the market stall deserved it.

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Near where my folks live in Hertfordshire, there's a big open air market that runs every Saturday on the old unused airfield. Complete mixture of everything - meat, vegetables, computer games, bags, crappy tools, phone unlocking. Probably half or more of the stuff on sale conveniently 'fell off the back of a lorry'. But by far the biggest single set of retailers are the clothes retailers. Never the same stock each week, whatever they can flog goes out on the racks.

As it happened, my mother and sister were looking for some jeans. Since trying them on wasn't exactly going to be possible, they did the best they could by holding them up against my sister and visually comparing - no size labels inside. They bought the jeans and got multiple assurances from the kindly indian gentlemen running the stall that if they didn't fit, they could get a full refund.

Quick walk home, try them on and they're too small. Walk back to the stall... and mysteriously, the nice gentlemen have forgotten their promise! No refunds are given ever, why on earth would we have told you you'd get a refund? We'd never do that.

They ask to change them for a pair of a different size instead, not an unreasonable request. Again denied. And speaking to the market manager/supervisor does bugger all - they don't interfere with transactions.

Unfortunately, when it comes to money and bargains, my mother is more stubborn than a truckload of mules. And she has nothing better to do on a Saturday.

Picture a terribly British little middle aged middle class woman standing in front of a clothing stall telling every single person who goes in that if there's a problem there's no exchanges or refunds. Picture said woman telling every single customer exactly what happened to her. Picture a very angry set of stall owners trying to get her to move on, and her ever-so politely pointing out in a voice that Hyacinth Bucket would be proud of, that she's not on their stall and is on public property. In a very busy market, with lots of passers by and witnesses. Picture several little throwaway comments about the bad quality of the stitching and the likelihood that the colours will fade.

Now picture that, with the woman in question keeping this up for *two hours* solid. During that time, the stall made about five sales total, and the surrounding stallholders kept bursting into giggles at random points.

Eventually, the stallholders cracked, and shoved some money into her hand and told her in no uncertain terms never to patronise their stall again.

The crowning jewel in this little ever so British protest was not the fact that she was mistakenly given £20 instead of the £10 she paid.

Nor was it the fact that she kept the jeans as well.

It was the fact that after shoving the money into her hand, the man turned round, and walked straight into one of the poles holding up the sign at the front with a very satisfying *CLONG*

It's surprising how effective making a scene can be. Not to mention how irritating a good bit of passive aggression is. Unsurprisingly, my mother views that day as one of her greatest triumphs. It's not often you get a triple whammy.
(calamarain just invented dehydrated water, Tue 9 Sep 2008, 21:50, 1 reply)

Your mum and mine
are sisters under the skin. My mother would do exactly the same in the circs.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Wed 10 Sep 2008, 15:11, closed)