You Need A Number

   Having been out of the country for quite some time, several years in fact, I was neither au courant nor up to speed with many of the current ways of English daily life.

   Wishing to buy a single postage stamp, of the one country in the world whose name is not on stamps, in order to pop a letter in the post, I entered a Birmingham Post Office which, other than the good lady behind the counter, was completely deserted and, thinking, 'Ah, no waiting, just what I like to see', walked up to the counter and addressed her with a cheerful, “Good morning.”

   “What’s your number?” she asked, in somewhat of a surly voice.
   In my book, I have always considered myself number one and replied accordingly, “Number one.”
   “No,” she informs me, with a sneer, “You need a number.”
   Surprised and somewhat at a loss, “How would I possibly know?” I enquired.
   “I just told you,” she replied firmly, “You need a number.”
   Puzzled, “Why do I need a number, pray tell?” I asked politely.
   “So I know who’s next in the queue,” she snidely replied.

   Looking around confirmed I was the one and only potential customer in the place and explained to her, “Excuse me, my dear lady, but as you and I are the only people in this establishment and you are on the other side of the counter and therefore not in the queue, I am the queue and, by default, I am therefore number one.”
   “No,” she once again informs me, “You need a number.”
   “Oh, and where would I obtain the requisite number?” I asked, feeling somewhat deflated.
   “Push the button,” she says.
   Baffled, “What button would that be?” I asked.
   “The one behind you,” she tells me.
   Turning around, the button was evident by its total absence and I made the observation, “Sorry, I don’t see a button”.
   “It’s on the other side of that machine,” she informs me, indicating it with an upward movement of her chin.
   'No wonder I couldn’t see it,' thinks I to myself, feeling somewhat ridiculous, and, retracing my steps, walked around the machine, found the cleverly concealed button, which I duly pressed and, after a pause then a whir, I was promptly presented with my very own printed out number, '09'.

   Returning to the counter with my number proudly held aloft, I smiled sweetly and yet, was stopped in my tracks when advised, “I didn’t call you.”
   Flummoxed as I now had the requisite number and, feeling somewhat foolish, in a questioning tone of voice, I said, “I beg your pardon?”
   "You need a number," she once more informs me, “And wait 'til it’s called.”
   Not having received a copy of the script as yet, I humbly asked, “What should I do then?”
   “Go back and wait in the queue until your number is called.”

   'Queue? What queue? I am the [expletive deleted] queue!'

   Perplexed, and feeling somewhat puzzled, I once again retraced my steps, did an about-face and waited, not quite as patiently as when first I entered this unique emporium of postal possibilities which, by the way, was still completely empty except for we two.

   After what seemed an age, I heard the 'ding' of a bell and a sign above the counter was illuminated with a bright red light.
   'Aha' I thought and made one step forward only to look up again at the sign and see the number, '07’. My 'Aha' disintegrated into an “Aha-arghh!” and, returning a pace in total frustration, I tore my printed out number '09' into tiny pieces and deposited them in the appropriate nearby recyclable rubbish receptacle.
   Waiting for what seemed like an eon or two and, after yet another 'ding' followed by the number, '08’, eventually, my number ('09’) was up, preceded by its very own and, by now, extremely quite annoying 'ding'.
   By this time, I had been in the Post Office for twenty minutes or more and yet, had accomplished very little other than learn, 'You need a number.'

   Standing there as I was, a little lost for words and wondering what next to do, “Yes?" she intoned, with what can only be described as a baleful, if not withering, look in her eye.

   Approaching the counter for the third time, I was prepared to state my personal postal requirement (i.e., one postage stamp, if you please) and, taking a deep breath was, much to my dismay, immediately and abruptly stalled by the lady behind the counter who, noticing I was empty-handed and, with, what appeared to me, a self-satisfied smirk of pure and unadulterated malice, advised me, in no uncertain terms.......

   “You need a number.”

   Later that year, in an attempt to explore ArrábidaShopping, a large shopping mall across the River Douro from Porto in Vila Nova de Gaia, Portugal, which, tho' sometimes briefly glimpsed from the road, is totally un-sign-posted so, unless standing directly in front of the entrance, I discovered, is invisible to the eye, naked or otherwise, and is hidden between the surrounding apartment buildings.

   Within its corridors is a huge supermarket, Jumbo Hypermarket de Gaia and, while aimlessly meandering around inside the Hypermarket and comparing prices to those of similar items at home, I decided to buy snacks for the road and, slowly wending my way over to the overly-long queue at the ever-so long bakery counter, I saw, among other things, delicious-looking fresh, bread, baguettes, pastries, pizza, quiche, rolls, sandwiches and tarts from which to choose. 'said counter was manned by two uniformed women, one of whom disappeared within split seconds of my arrival.

   Having experienced a somewhat similar scene in a Birmingham Post Office, I was savvy enough to seek out a ticket machine and spotted one with 4 buttons, each of which was marked by a single letter; 'G' – 'H' – 'I' – 'J'. I also noticed a familiar-looking lighted number above and behind the counter, which, when changed was announced by a now also very familiar chime.

   Recurring déjà vu? I do believe so.

   Tho' nowhere was it stated what the letters on the machine stood for, I decided to buy a baguette and a quiche and, having observed a gentleman immediately ahead of me push button 'H' and receive a numbered ticket, I did likewise. In return, I was rewarded with a printed ticket displaying 'H-233' (oh, happy day)... meanwhile, the sign above displayed 'G-209'.

   A lady would-be customer then arrived, picked up a sandwich from the counter and promptly pressed button 'G'. When the sole serving person was finally finished with her current customer, she pressed her own button, a chime was heard, the sign illuminated with 'G-210' and... not a single customer responded. More than likely, they had lost interest and/or patience, given up and departed with neither an edible item nor a backward glance.
   The same serving person pressed her button yet again, another chime was heard, the sign was illuminated with 'H-230' and the gentleman in front of me eventually worked his way through the crowd, surrendered his ticket, requested, paid for and immediately consumed a baguette where he stood.

   'Hey, I'm on the way,' or so I thought. 

   When next a chime rang out, the sign was illuminated with 'G-211' and the lady holding a sandwich, who had arrived after me, made her way to the front, proffered her ticket and... was instantly denied service.

   'Uh-oh' thinks I, I've seen this movie!'

   Although I speak not word one of Portuguese, other than, 'Bom dia,' it was obvious from the heated conversation, the lady in question had pushed the wrong letter button on the dreaded machine and, as a sandwich did not qualify for a 'G' ticket, she was instructed to press the correct button this time [which was?] and return to the end of the queue.

   The lady declined the suggestion, replaced the sandwich, dropped her 'G' ticket on the floor and stormed off in somewhat of a huff muttering what I know not inaudibly under her breath. Several chimes and number changes later, none of which was an 'I' let alone a 'J', I was pleased to see the magic number 'H-233' illuminated and, with a smile on my face, while proudly holding my winning ticket aloft (sound familiar?), I hurried forward to the counter before the number could change yet again.

   Faced with the now not-so pleasant countenance of the one person serving, I politely pointed to and requested a baguette which was pleasantly approved [hooray], bagged with a price printed and affixed.
I then pointed to and requested a quiche, which also received her approval and the same bagging and pricing treatment.

   So far so good, now, all I have to do is pay... shouldn't be too difficult.

   Wrong!

   After a very confused interlude, and with more sign language than the spoken word, I finally understood I could only pay for the bagged and priced bakery items at the bakery counter if I wanted to consume them while standing at the bakery counter. I did not, thank you very much, they were intended for later when on the road.

   'OK, now what?'

   With more gesticulating and words the like of which I could not fathom, apparently, I was required to take my bagged and priced order to the check-out cashiers at the front of the Hypermarket where they would be scanned in order that I may pay.
   Following the animated directions to the letter, I did an about-face, hiked for what seemed hours across the airport terminal-like shop only to be confronted with... even more overly-long queues.

   And here's where the 'snacks for the road' plot thickens...

   Only after choosing the wrong line did I learn, should one wish to pay cash, it's a certain line or, if one wishes to pay with a debit card, it's another and by credit card it's yet another still but... which one is which?

   Having waited a while, with credit card in hand, the correct line was pointed out to me which, it turned out, was a do-it-yourself self-service machine with instructions in... Portuguese of course!

   Eventually, after much trial and error, I was on trial and made many errors, I finally figured it all out, stood in line yet again, paid cash and beat a hasty retreat outdoors.
It only took 57 minutes in all, and all for 2 snacks.

   All of which goes to show, not only in a Birmingham Post Office, but in Portugal too......... You need a number!

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