External Link/Members OnlyExternal Link/Members OnlyI think it's fairly obvious by now that I'm a stickler for detail. Not the sort of fine detail that is borderline Autistic, just simple things that should be blatantly fucking obvious to anyone who decides to pursue a career in the service industry - whether customer services or personal services. Effective, unambiguous communication and good time keeping are simple dictums that should be mastered and abided by.
It is also obvious from any review I have written that I am both flexible and polite. Polite enough to give any girl who cancels for any reason a second chance and to allow for late arrivals or those who overrun. Moreover, I am always punctual, clean and respectful to a fault.
In addition to walking at the faintest sign of body odour, I have one other very simple punting rule that has served me well over the course of my career as a purchaser of sexual services: the 10 minute rule. After 10 minutes of waiting, I walk. Whether that is due to the old gent who took too long to shoot his load or any other excuse for that reason, if I am kept waiting for a moment longer than 10 minutes, I take my cash elsewhere. Always have and always will. Not because I’m impatient, but because I’m paying a fuckload of readies for a service – a timely and efficient service. Sometimes that pre-service ‘service’ falters.
That happened today.
The disappointing thing was not the fact I had booked this appointment more than a week ago, nor the hour spent travelling. I’m not going to mention the £34.00 fucking wasted on a taxi to The IBIS Aldgate East either. Oops, I just did. The ‘deal breaker’ was the supposed reason I was kept waiting beyond the allotted time, twiddling my thumbs in the ghastly reception area: “We just got back and are having lunch.”
Say what?
Now, whether that was the worse concocted tale of escort tardiness I have ever heard in 20 years or whether it was actually true matters not one iota. What does matter is the bizarre idea that this would even be an acceptable reason to keep a throbbing punter waiting like a cunt. Moreover, as I had brought with me a packed lunch in the form of an organic, protein-rich amuse-bouche and a 1997 Casa Lapostolle Clos Apalta, a vintage Chilean red, ‘lunch’ was not what I wanted to hear. Particularly as the wine was intended as a polite nod to Dee’s Latina heritage and to break the ice with a ‘new girl’ – English Lucy.
Oh well.
There is little more to say really. Yes, I can be a fluff and heap praise where it’s due, but I hope this ‘review’ will show that service begins outside the door – from the moment a time is agreed and (ideally) respected.
Bring on the inevitable criticism …
