"A person who never made a mistake never tried anything new"- Albert Einstein

Welcome all,

I hope I haven't given you the impression that the title quote of this post bears any relation to impending deep and meaningful discussion. The logic is that I'm new to blogging and it's likely to be a mistake, that's as deep as it runs, I'm afraid. Now that's out the way: hello.

I'll begin with a bit about myself. I love trains but not buses, coffee but not tea and rugby but not football. Captain Morgan is my favourite spirit, Stella Artois my favourite lager and Casseliro Diablo my favourite wine. I hate almost everything else, owls excluded.

Now on with the topic of the day: Queuing- British?

This topic came about when my sister was ranting about airport queues earlier and, having never been on a plane before, I listened attentively to the horrors that await me upon my first visit to an airport to actually fly rather than consume an overpriced McDonald's. As the story was told my mum laughed and informed my sister of her "britishness." I have never understood this obsession with British people and queues...is it even a thing? Are we particularly concerned with the order in which we waste our lunch breaks in an understaffed post office? Do we care whether we await the self-scan machines in our local supermarket forming an orderly snake or a straight line? Is this really a bone of contention for British people?

Until recently, I was of the opinion that queuing incorrectly (or not at all) was the gripe of the senior citizen. The same citizen who won't admit they're a casual racist and is shocked by people eating in the street (eating in the street, I say!!!) That was, until, I was in an establishment  where the humble queue is forgotten, but is still very, very British: the pub. I will never understand why queues don't form in bars, clubs and pubs. We have to queue to get in, so why not to be served? Instead you rest your weary elbow on the sticky bar and tut disapprovingly as the suave businessmen or busty lady saunters up and is served before you. Why, as British people, do we not have a system for drinking when it is something we do so well?

When the barman  finally took my order I facetiously asked for 8 vodka and oranges. I expected a quizzical raising of the eyebrows or a tongue-in-cheek joke but instead he asked "ice and slice with all of those?" Deeply upset by the lack of opportunity to moan about the fact I had been waiting at the bar so long my hair had greyed , I began ferrying the drinks back to my friend C. She did raise a quizzical eyebrow and make a tongue-in-cheek joke and I promptly sat down and moaned about the fact I had been waiting at the bar so long my hair had greyed. It was then, sat in a pub binge drinking and moaning about queues whilst it rained outside that I appreciated my own Britishness.
And I loved it.

ITPTSO

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