One such stereotype of the Spanish is their relaxed attitude to timekeeping. Well, in my experience, it simply doesn’t apply. The trains, buses and metros generally run on time – far more than they do in the UK – and appointments with doctors, dentists, estate agents and others are also satisfyingly prompt most of the time. The stereotype does exist and a perfect example are the TV schedules – don’t bother with them, programmes never start on time. Ever.
But that stereotype here in Spain is as common as the stereotype that all English people eat roast beef, drink tea, have pictures of the Queen in their living rooms and have bad teeth. It’s not true, of course it’s not. They’re too busy looting off-licences and burning down furniture shops to be eating roast beef, and they’re too busy chugging down cheap cider and vodka before throwing up in bus stops to be drinking tea. Pictures of the Queen? Well, if her name is Chantelle or Jordan and she’s a pull-out picture from a lads’ mag with big tits, then maybe. Bad teeth? Yeah, that is true, they’ve all got bad teeth.
However, there is a thing with poor time keeping here in Spain that does get my goat – big time! When people are late or just don’t turn up at all, it’s far more common to give a shrug of the shoulders as if saying “so what, I’m here now, aren’t I?” than to apologise. It’s socially acceptable.
I don’t mean turning up at the bar or pub an hour late. That’s ok. Even I don’t mind that. What I’m talking about is appointments with professional people, people who you pay money to for a service.
And here in Seville, there is one man who, in my experience, is doing his very best to keep the stereotype alive single-handedly. Recently, I’ve been having some work done on correcting a sports injury I suffered years ago. Long story short, I injured my ankle badly 20 years ago playing rugby, it never really healed properly, and even since then I’ve always walked a bit lop-sided. I don’t mean I looked like a circus freak, but even though it was barely noticeable, the long period of time without correction has made it worse and worse.
So recently, I’ve had some quite painful physiotherapy and other electrical things strapped to my ankle, which have made it feel funny, and I’ve also had insoles made for my shoes. I have to wear them with whatever shoes I’m wearing so that my foot sits correctly and I don’t walk like a gorilla. Anyway, I’ve had appointments to check on the effectiveness of these insoles and three times now the idiot at the place I go to has screwed up the appointment times. Once is fair enough, we all make mistakes. But three times – this week was the latest – is really starting to push me towards the gun drawer in my bedroom.
“Wait a minute, “ you’re saying. “Three times? So what! Big deal, calm down. Relax, take a pill.” But, like I said, an apology would go a long way to easing my homicidal tendancies. But it just isn’t forthcoming. “It’s not my fault, I didn’t make the appointment,” said the reception staff. Even the bloke himself wasn’t bothered, when he finally got around to calling me to reschedule. Last time he just told us he was doing something else.
An apology may not solve everything, but it certainly goes a long way to easing the urge to twist his head off and dump down his neck. It wasn’t as if he was delayed by another patient. I was his first appointment of the day. He just didn’t come into the office until two hours later! I don’t know, maybe he couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed. Ok, beheading him and defecating down the gap is probably a bit of an over-reaction. And let’s be honest. I’d probably get arrested. I accept that. Maybe what he needs is a calm, measured reminder of how important it is to keep your appointments with your clients. Maybe.
Or maybe what he really needs is my insole-corrected size 11 boot up his useless, fat, stupid, unapologetic, can’t-read-his-own-watch arse.
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