Blackpool

I love Blackpool. I should loathe it, because it’s not what it was when I spent my childhood holidays there in the 50s and 60s. Then it was the first choice of Northern working class folk who had enough disposable income to spend their one week’s holiday there, during Wakes weeks when the factories closed. It was never posh but it was decent. We stayed in hotels on the front. In Central not North. Later South, when my parents had more money. But never b&bs. We had ‘hoteliers’ looking after us, not ‘landladies’. Every year my parents would walk along the front and peer into the dining rooms in an attempt to select a hotel for the following year. ‘Select’ is the operative word because that’s what my mother wanted. She wouldn’t stay in any hotel that had sauce bottles on tables. She liked hotels with waitresses, dressed in pristine black and white uniforms, with frilly pinnies, who handed out napkins. One strict rule for we children was that we behaved at the table. ‘Aren’t your children well-mannered… ‘ was the highest compliment, followed by ‘They know how to use cutlery…’ What do other kids do?, I wondered.

   

So seeing Blackpool today is ‘different’. (Let’s be kind). Rows of hotels with fringed and coloured canopies, names like ‘Dun Roamin’ and ‘Ponderosa’, each trying to differentiate their appeal. Some advertise ‘colour television’ as if we we were still in the 50s. We would never have stayed in a Beatle-themed hotel. Mum would have assumed that it was full of Liverpudlians and ‘common’. One of the worst insults. (I couldn’t watch ‘Coronation Street’ because Mum said it gave a poor impression of the North). We once had a waitress with a Brummie accent who was deemed common. When she offered the conversational titbit that she liked salad cream sandwiches, that confirmed the opinion. But where else today could you get a hotel room for £12 a night?

Today in Blackpool we took Photography student daughter to tea. In an effort to avoid sauce bottles on tables we went to Lytham. Real china cups, tea leaves, not bags. Pot dogs and decorative teapots, you get the picture. Conversation got round to the changes being made to the town. A new front with giant black fronds lining the approach to the Tower. They are trying to remodel Blackpool on Torquay or Las Vegas apparently. To attract a different class of visitor. They have a long way to go…

Taking photos of the sand dunes with a friend late one evening Susie and friend were approached by a man, tottering drunkenly and with just two teeth, looking for a car-park.’Why?’ they enquired (no car). ‘I fancy a spot of dogging’, he said.

I love Blackpool for all its tackiness. I can see past obscenely shaped rock, badly spelt signage, rundown hotels … common folk. It’s the childhood memories that linger. Though we wouldn’t have got Mum back there.

 

Customer service stories (1)

The lovely 'Toppings' bookshop in Ely

Customer service – or the lack of it in the UK – is a particular bugbear of mine. So many people who ‘serve’ seem to regard it as a form of subservience, rather than an opportunity to help people.  Whenever I’m asked to design or deliver customer service training I never had to search hard for examples.  Inevitably, in the few days leading up to the training I am on the receiving end of good and poor examples that I use to illustrate my points.

Take the bar of a well-known Spanish tapas chain on Regent Street.  On requesting a second glass of wine I was told ‘It’s not my job, I just take you to a table’. No referral to a colleague, just a turned back.  Second example same place.  After two more requests to the waiter we decided to pay the bill and leave.  A manager look-a-like approached us. ‘How was it for you, ladies?’ (Ugh!). So I told him politely. His reaction: ‘Was everything else ok?’. No apology or redress.  Why ask in the first place? It just compounded the contempt with which we were treated.

Now for a London hotel.  Struggling in with my bags, post training, porter sees me but ignores me (see – older women are invisible). Straight faces at reception. I enquire about wifi. ‘It’s the global system’, I’m advised.  What does that mean? It wouldn’t work in my room, anyway, so I didn’t use it.  The bedside lamp needed a new bulb, the shower spluttered and to cap it all… When I went to dine, alone, in the restaurant, they seated me at a table for 8, in the centre of the room.  When I commented they said that smaller ones were reserved.  I don’t mind dining alone but felt exposed to the room. Not like Mumbai where they put a goldfish in a bowl on the table ‘to keep you company whilst you dine with us’. Unusual tactic but at least they cared! What kind of reaction will Olympic-bound tourists form of we Brits next year, I wonder?

Then there’s the Orange shops. I still haven’t bought an Iphone because of the service. So badly treated I walked out of two of their shops.  Not like the Apple ‘geniuses’ who are brilliant.  Totally take on board the Steve Jobs messages.  (See on YouTube his brilliant address to Stamford University grads in 2005.)

Now for a couple of great examples.  Toppings bookshop in Ely.  I went in because they were advertising ‘Nigella booksigning’ in the window.  Sold out – mmh, could have been a disappointing experience.  But no I got attentive service, free coffee, comfy seating, a signed first edition of the Nigella book, two further signed books for friends with birthdays, all books covered in protective cellophane. In all I bought six books, at full price, something I never do (with Amazon).  Later I discovered that the shop is owned by a former manager of Waterstones, Manchester, who was fired for giving customer good service. What this meant was that he refused to remove books he felt customers would like, in favour of the rubbish celebrity books he was asked to provide. See their website, they do interesting stuff. (And Ely is a great place for a weekend break).

Last week, a busy London restaurant, Da Polpo in Covent Garden. Really interesting place. The interior is built largely from reclaimed materials including a salvaged tin ceiling from New York, church pews, chemistry lab benches and Dutch school chairs. Crammed and crowded.  No reservation, no table available., no problem. ‘Stay and have a drink with us…’. Charming waiter with a sense of humour. Treated like real people. Knew all about the dishes on the menu (Venetian ‘tapas’, try them!) How many should we order? ‘No need to over-order… try a few and then more if you wish’.  None of this a big deal – but exceptional enough to remember and comment. Oh by the way, it’s a family business.

I am with Mary Portas on a crusade to improve customer service. When I train, I define it as ’being a decent human being’. Although to be fair it’s more of a recruitment issue and not always easy to teach. I have a personal mission to ‘spot someone doing something well’ and tell them.

You see some strange things…

I always go into churches when I’m abroad. For both religious and cultural reasons. You always find something of interest, even if you’re not religious. In Paris a small South American choir were practising. In Stratford a young group of American gospel singers were giving a free concert. In Venice a trio of violinists were playing Vivaldi. And I’ve heard nuns and monks in monasteries singing the Divine Office.  A little bit of calm and culture amidst the hustle and bustle of what may be outside.

I usually start by reading all the notices and leaflets around to get a sense of the church, the parish, the people.  You can quickly tell their priorities.  It might just be to remain open, a sign of the times.  You see many churches turned into homes, offices, restaurants, art galleries. Better any of these than to remain closed. In a sense churches are usually art galleries, even when still consecrated. In L’Eglise de la Sainte Famille in Le Touquet there is vibrant modern stained glass. The thing about stained glass is that the hues change depending upon the time of day and the way the light falls. You are drawn to revere the art and the artist for making this happen.

I always light candles. Proper candles, not those electric ones that health and safety madmen favour.  And I pray for the people I know in the most need. This is sometimes a long list.  And it’s often a desperate plea, seemingly unanswered, or at least not in the way you expect.

In this church I came across a prayer to St Rita, ‘Sainte de Impossible’.  ‘That’s worth a try’, I thought, ‘for all those seemingly impossible requests’. The instructions tell me that I have to say a specific prayer to her.  And photocopy the prayer 25 times and leave for other people.  Then wait for the fourth day… I’ll let you know how I get on.

Le weekend en France

France is wonderful at any time of year.  But particularly when you haven’t been for a while and the weather is unexpectedly good.  Le Touquet has to be one of my favourite places.  Like St Malo and St Cast, it reminds me of those school trips abroad: one of the highlights of my existence – yes really! Except now I don’t have to go round looking for ‘straying children’ and picking off sixth formers in bars.

Why are the French cool in a way that we Brits are not? Saturday morning in France is so much fun.  Coffee and ‘tarte aux pommes’, followed by a stroll on the beach, a browse round the shops and a trip to the market for some foods to take home. Things you don’t see (at least in Loughborough), like ‘girolles’ mushrooms, tomatoes with unfamilar names, russet apples (what happened to those?) and those deliciously sweet ‘fraises des bois’.

How is it that a small French town can sustain such an abundance of food shops?  The butcher, the baker, the fishmonger and the greengrocer are all here and seem to thrive, alongside the market and the out-of-town supermarket. Well perhaps because you don’t see as many ‘bog-offs’ and the French don’t mind paying a bit more for quality food. Then, again, they don’t eat as much … French women (and men) really do seem to keep slim and so elegant. You can understand why they call this place ‘Le Touquet, Paris Plage’. Lots of Serge Gainsbourg lookalikes with blonde women and small dogs (always!). One restaurant actually had a photo and endorsement by the actor in its window.  Don’t they know he’s been dead 20 years?!

A final word of praise for the lovely woman in the jeweller’s – see pic – who relieved my distress after a wasp sting to my ring finger.  She acted quickly and cut off my wedding and engagement rings, causing minimum discomfort after the swelling caused constriction. A quick call to NHS Direct advised me to do this in order ‘to save the finger’. No panic then. But she was lovely, her small son was cute.  Most of all it didn’t spoil our weekend!

Old houses

When our Brazilian friend Richard came to Chatsworth House with us on one occasion he commented that he loved the house and gardens but wasn’t interested in ‘old furniture and tatty carpets’. I feel much the same myself although Hardwick Hall, also in Derbyshire, is a pretty impressive house. Owned by Bess of Hardwick – you may recall the woman if you saw the Keira Knightley film, The Duchess - this is one of the grandest Elizabethan houses in England. Climbing up the floors of the house is a spectacular experience. Each room is full of rich tapestries, plaster friezes and huge marble fireplaces. Bess married four times apparently and accumulated vast wealth. You can imagine the house alive with friends and family. The dining table is set out for dinner, the sherry looked inviting. There’s a ruined castle next door. She had a new one built to accommodate visitors. She was supposed to be beautiful but it’s hard to tell from the paintings. And perceptions of beauty change over the ages, of course.

The last duchess lived in the house until a few years ago. It’s owned by the National Trust now. An area of the house had been preserved as she left it. Interesting but not how you’d expect a duchess to live. On the whole I prefer Chatsworth. Larger, grander and still occupied by the Devonshire family. We stayed in Buxton once on a visit and my friend saw the current duchess out shopping. Don’t imagine Bess would have done anything so mundane.

As I commented I preferred the gardens and with our friends admired the dahlias, all in bloom. There were some well-manicured trees and interesting sculptures. There is also a stonemasonry nearby. I’ve never joined the National Trust but perhaps I will now that I’m 60. See my photos below.

Welcome to England (not!)

The American psychologist and writer, Daniel Pink, is claimed to collect ‘emotionally intelligent signage’, according to Oliver Burkeman in today’s Guardian. This is signage that creates an empathy with people in order to encourage them to obey. So, for instance you would see ‘Please keep to the footpaths’ rather than ‘Don’t walk on the grass’. A more positive approach and one that more people tend to follow, apparently.

Coincidentally, I was discussing this very topic when out walking yesterday in the groundsof a nearby country house, open to visitors for just one month each year. Typical British weather in August, it was lashing down as we walked through the gardens. There were few other visitors, the rain saw to that – and perhaps the signs. Everywhere we looked there were threats and prohibitions. This is just a sample: We only open at 2pm. Don’t park here, your vehicle will be towed away; Stay off the grass; No picnicking allowed; Keep dogs on a leash; Keep away from the building work (scaffolding and builders around); No alcohol to be consumed; This area is monitored by CCTV. Don’t feed the ducks … and so on. Our party yesterday included two head teachers, a librarian and senior manager, all law-abiding folk accustomed to encouraging good behaviour in others. We laughed at the proliferation of all these ‘dont’s’ but there is a serious issue. What is the mentality behind this overly censorious approach to receiving visitors?

Evidently visitors are unwelcome. So, why do they open the family house and grounds in August? So that we, ‘local commoners’, get to see how the other half live? And pay for their restauration, most likely. Loughborough is due to receive the Japanese Olympians next year. There’s a lot of building work going on in the area. I hope that the powers-that-be also look at building good relationships and provide customer service training that includes the welcome people should receive. I suspect not. It’s rather a British thing to show disdain for customers, at the same time as wanting their money. Ah well, hope yet, as we did see this cosy cafe sign before we left.