The Tax Man cometh

I work in an area of the catering industry where a certain amount of familiarity is the key to successful service – a small, independent enterprise, and those who work in it, will always attract a certain amount of curiosity. That’s fine.

 

biblocafe is not a 5* hotel, nor a silver service restaurant, so there is a relaxed attitude toward the norms of interaction: you will not necessarily be sir’d or madam’d; no offence is meant by this - none has yet been taken.

 

I know that biblocafe has caused some confusion (FYI biblo was to denote ‘book’ and cafe was to infer ‘coffee’. Not that long ago the name seemed a work of genius – I could have named the venture after a quadruped’s reproductive organs and I still would have been selling coffee, cake and second hand books. After all, how many businesses are eponymously named? How many actually give any indication of the services or products inside? Who, for pity’s sake, when considering the branding of a certain range of clothing, leapt up and down shouting, “Gap? It’s perfect! Doesn’t it just scream SJP in jeans and a t-shirt??!”  Exactly. It’s all in the window-display. So pay attention.)

 

Therefore I do understand why people wander in looking for bible studies classes, and I’m happy to point them in the right direction. I do understand why some people are so surprised to see Jilly Cooper nestling cosily up to Ian Rankin (figuratively speaking, that is). What I don’t understand is why complete strangers feel that they have an absolute right to ask the most impertinent questions, and demand a response. 

 

My father once told me that the only topics to be avoided in his pub were sport, politics, sex and religion as all could turn a pleasant atmosphere into handbags at twenty paces – of course, this left only the price of beer to debate and although this has been known to cause ructions Guilford-way, in general such limitations make for a spectacularly dull evening.

 

I tend to break three of his conversational taboos on a regular basis (if only in the interests of entertainment), but I feel that asking someone about their personal religious beliefs without the safety-net of familiarity is akin to tapping a stranger on the shoulder and asking for a description of their favourite sexual position. With hand gestures.

 

I just think it’s rude.  

I’m all for an open debate on any subject that takes your fancy, and I’m generally pretty hard to offend, but would someone please explain to me why a complete stranger would find it acceptable to ask “do you have faith?” and then act aggrieved when I decline to answer? 

This particular personality-type has no interest in the goods on sale, nor even the urge to exchange pleasantries, they simply see the shop as a convenient arena for a game of ‘I recently found Jesus and I know Him better than you could ever hope to’ with extra points for close physical proximity and a bonus if I take two steps backward. 

 

I would like to make it clear that a number of my most treasured customers are members of the church-going community – but such personal details have only gradually come to light over the course of several weeks acquaintance: they live with compassion and empathy and a love of God, yet no-one has ever introduced themselves with the words “I believe in God and regularly worship at St Mary’s. Two lattes please.” 

 

So, for those aforementioned individuals who have no concept of personal space: do I have faith? Yes. In death and taxes. Anything else is none of your business.  

‘Thankyou For Smoking’

In the last 6 months my life has changed beyond all recognition – I have gambled everything I own (and quite a few items that still have payments due) on my dream business, I have discovered that it is possible to survive without a social-life (although I wouldn’t recommend it), I have declared to all and sundry that I will give up smoking – and less than week after the ban was implemented I doubled my nicotine intake in a fit of pique.  Mel Smith has a point.

On a brighter note, I did manage to amuse myself by affording the occasional passer-by a blow-by-blow (no pun intended – if I mean to inspire hilarity I’ll give you prior warning) account of my attempts to deal with this Orwellian turn of events by way of the chalkboard outside the shop:

DAY 1: smokeless/having no smoke

DAY 2: grumpy/bad tempered (see: smokeless)

DAY 3: irritable/short tempered (see: smokeless, grumpy)

 

On day 4 I tried to find a word for “extremely annoyed to be dictated to by some smug, supercilious bastard (who obviously lives in more reliably sunny climes) as to what I can and cannot do on/in my own premises – what will it be next? Caffeine? Sugar? Sex? TV after 1am?” but the Oxford English Dictionary appears to be lacking somewhat in this regard. I had to settle for ‘DEMOCRACY??’ and a double espresso.

It’s been over four months now, and despite these last few blissful weeks of  smirting the winter months are looming large: rain, snow, biting winds and wrestling with inside-out umbrellas as people (who, given the gale-force 10 gusting up the street, could not possibly be affected by my piffling thread of smoke) stop to feign choking fits, energetically flapping their hands around my face whilst lecturing me about my sinful habit ignoring the fact that if they hang around in this weather they’ll develop a hacking cough more damaging than mine BECAUSE MY LUNGS ARE USED TO IT! 

Therefore, I am buying a tree.  A big one.  In a pot.  I am going to place it carefully between my dustbin and the nearest lamppost and use it to loiter behind, sulking, everytime I feel the need for a nicotine hit.  If you see me, shout “TEACHER!” really loudly so that I can truly relive my teens.  (I draw the line at polka dot ankle socks and a puffball skirt, though…)