Service with a smile

I went to the dentist last week. The first time in twelve years. Before you start recoiling in horror, my teeth had actually been pretty fine up until the last year (or two) and even then the shooting pains that would generally accompany me eating chocolate would usually subside after I rinsed my mouth out with a can of coke.
Having recently celebrated my birthday, I decided that potentially having to carry my teeth around in my handbag for the rest of my life may not be such a good look.
Off I trotted into a swanky place in town and what can only be described as the Powerscourt springs of Dentists. The receptionist seemed genuinely happy to see me. The dental nurse was ecstatic, but this was all eclipsed by the Dentist. A shining beacon in the field of Dentistry. Compared to rushed "pull your knickers up, pull your knickers down," experiences that usually happen in the G.P., this was such a charming affair. At one point I thought we were going to hug.
The next day on my lunch break I had two voicemails-one from the receptionist asking me if I'd had a nice time when I was there and the other from the dentist-calling to see how I was getting on with my new filling and if I was able to eat sweets again. I considered writing him a letter to tell him how pleased I was with the level of service, but then I figured that might make the cleaning session next week a little awkward.
I started to think about customer service in Ireland as a whole and how this over the top niceness was so unfamiliar. Ireland, well Dublin at least, is so far from the "Have a nice day" approach they're out on their own. I've always found the level of apathy displayed by most shop assistants to be pleasantly reassuring.It seems to say "I work here, but its clearly just for the money and I couldn't give a flying fuck if you come back here or not. I'm still going to get paid." Theres a girl who works in Superquin that actually gives you dirty looks as she's scanning your bread. I recently asked for directions in a petrol station and was told (by a guy who was pointing a scissors in my face) "I think its this way...but if I'm wrong don't come back here and start moaning. I don't have a fucking clue."
For the last decade I've been involved in a not so silent battle with the woman that works in my local chipper. Each quarter pounder is given with looks up and down, mutterings in Italian, and then hysterical laughter to her co-workers.

Still going to that chipper though.