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 actually on their 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, repeating, “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 more than 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, the postmistress and myself.

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' and the red light.

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.”

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