This Scotland

We close at 2

It was not, I believed, an unreasonable request. I needed a taxi, to pick me up at 8am on a Sunday morning and take me the seven miles from my home to Leven bus station. Clearly, however, I had not realised just what an imposition this was.
     'If you were local,' said a guy at the first taxi firm I phoned out of Yellow Pages, 'we could do it. If you were in Methil. But not all the way out in Colinsburgh'. (I reiterate – a seven mile journey, a taxi company, an advert in Yellow Pages – what was I missing here?)
     The next response was even more blunt. 'He doesn't start work until 9.30,' I was told, as the phone was slammed down even before I had the opportunity to apologise for the temerity of my request.
     Sunday morning…quiet, generally, wouldn't a bit of work action be a good thing to a small company or a self-employed operator? 8am – not 4am – a reasonably civilised hour, I thought. Seven miles – Okay, a 14-mile round-trip. Charge me for the whole journey, I really don't mind. But, having tried a third prospective chauffeur, I realised there were going to be no takers. And phoned a friend, who happily obliged for free.
     So why do the taxi firms of Leven spend good money to advertise in a national publication and then turn down the chance to earn a few bob, proffering all sorts of spurious excuses? And why was it that, a while back, when my husband and I tried to get lunch in a hotel in the East Neuk but, having had the misfortune to arrive at 2.10pm (the kitchen, we were informed peremptorily, closed at 2pm SHARP – and I think the last word came out as a sort of bark) – we were told we could not even order a sandwich? (The answer of 'we've no bread' somehow did not ring true in a large seafront hotel).
     I've encountered this can't-be-bothered attitude frequently over the summer, as I've guided tourists around Scotland. The castle where the dining area resembled the aftermath of a chimps' tea-party...tables piled high with used crockery, which customers then moved themselves to other, equally laden tables, to reveal ketchup-and-coffee-smeared formica beneath, hardly conducive to the partaking of a civilised lunch. Followed, inevitably, by a long wait, perusing a barely-literate menu, frantically trying to catch the attention of a member of staff, who might be interested and motivated enough to take our order.
     Finally, fed-up with making yet another apology to my patient clients on behalf of British service standards, going into the kitchen, to discover a group (a skive??) of waiting staff, gossiping about some inanity and clearly put-out at being caught.
     And take the tea-room at another stately pile – where, despite being told that a group of 40 Americans would be making a late-in-the-day visit and would definitely spend money on tea and buns – said they closed at 4.30pm and no exceptions could be made. Forty people – lots of tea and buns and lots of dosh (which said stately pile is always claiming it doesn't get enough of) – but paying a couple of staff a tenner each to keep the place open was clearly a step too far.
     I don't get it. I really don't. For a nation, which, financially, relies so heavily on the provision of services (Britain, I mean, not just Scotland), why does it appear we hate the idea of service so much? Do we equate it with servility? Surely not. As a tour guide, I am a provider of services and I hope I do this with graciousness and obvious pleasure. I don't have to do this job. I choose to do it. And there are always driving jobs which don't involve members of the public, if you're a reluctant taxi driver in Leven, or work which keeps you in the kitchen, rather than having to clear tables and smile at customers, if you're a put-upon wait-person in the Borders.
     I know it's easy to cite the US when the subject of providing good service comes up – and I'm sure there are hundreds, thousands, of establishments in that vast country where our most surly British staff would feel instantly at home. They would simply have to perfect an American growl. But, whenever I've visited even the most humble eaterie, I am greeted with a smile, almost instantly guided to a clean table, poured a coffee, given a menu and an order is taken within a very reasonable amount of time. It is never made to feel a big deal. Which, indeed, it isn't.