When buying a bag of vacuum cleaner bags from Godfrey's or any other vacuum cleaner shop, you are more likely to encounter poor customer service than in just about any other retail environment.
Upon entering the shop, the retail worker would like you to be contemplating the purchase of a new vacuum cleaner as the sale of the non re-useable paper dust containers is mere bagatelle to his sales bottom line and commission. You can see his lip drop as you mention what you want, and when you don't know straight away what type of bag it is you are after, from the myriad range, then it's a chance for him to shake his head at you, saying "Well, we've got lots of different bags for different machines, and if you don't know what type of machine you've got, it's going to be impossible to identify the right bag!", as if the problem posed is going to be harder to solve than coming world food shortage.
I actually sort of half knew the name of the machine I had. I just hadn't bothered to write it down or bring with me an old empty bag of vacuum cleaner bags. I was 100% sure it was a Hoover (an American president past) and vaguely remembered the model name also had something to do with the US of A - "That's right it's a 'Patriot'!", I muttered to myself as my vacuum cleaner bag name seeking mnemonic invoked its powers of magic recollection. All this happened at the same time as my eyes moved along the lines of bags, like a visiting head of state inspecting an honour guard, and there it was a bag of five Hoover Patriot bags.
After the gruff treatment I received from the first salesman I encountered, I tried to complete the transaction with another salesman. However the second salesman, who I suspect was an underling in the Godfrey's salesperson's hierarchy, passed me straight back the curmudgeon I first encountered. Despite achieving the unachievable and managing to spot the correct vacuum cleaner bag, the first salesman merely processed the sale, without so much as a word uttered in my direction. I saw his muteness and raised him no eye contact, as if we were in some giant elevator, where all communication had been banned. Credit card sales can sometimes facilitate silence in the retail exchange, and our interaction was confined to me proffering my card, him passing me the bags and then thrusting a receipt into my hand.
As I exited the shop I realized my working life wasn't so bad, because it seemed to be employed in a vacuum cleaner shop somehow seemed to suck the life out of those behind the counter, and didn't match the autonomy, pushiness and apparent living on the edge their door to door counterparts enjoyed. Maybe next time I could make the purchase of vacuum cleaner bags more pleasant for all concerned by ordering them on the Internet so then a welcome parcel of bags would one day turn up on my door step, where in the past an Electrolux or Dyson salesman had once stood.
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