Waterstones — Local services in Great Britain

I hate and fear the manager here.

I'm usually very pro Waterstones. When I came recently to get a book I had ordered online, I was looking forward to spending half an hour or so browsing as well. One must have one's little treats.

I opted to pay for my order first and browse after.

Reader, I am bound to tell the truth: the girl at the till was neither chewing bubble gum nor wearing big hoop earrings. But if I had to write a character in a novel based on her, I would not struggle for ideas. Paying for my book was a battle. Bless this girl, she seemed to think I was the one making it difficult. One failed card machine and another crashed terminal later, I eventually paid in cash.

At this point, my usual peppy Waterstones mood was soured. May the books forgive me, I asked to have a quick interlude with the manager.

Never have I so confidently blundered into such a disastrous course of action.

I had to politely butt into a loud conversation that this manager was having with her friend on the shop floor. She looked at me with the kind of face Regina George would make if an unpopular boy asked her to prom.

Reader, I confess that I lost motivation. I did not want to engage in an argument (never go full Karen!), so I tried to escape. In a fateful act of hubris, I made what I thought was to be my coup de grace.

"It doesn't matter", I said, stepping away and making the kind of open-handed gesture of polite but firm abstention that I usually deploy when I'm ambushed in the street about my energy bills. "I'll leave a review online."

If I ever develop time travel technology, my first trip back will be to 2025 Stirling Waterstones, and I will save myself from what was about to happen to me.

The persona I had been speaking to disappeared, and in its place emerged a hybrid: a cross between Dolores Umbridge and something from a horror film that pursues you with a tilted head and a smile that's too wide.

"I'm listening to you!" She says, smiling, and straight away I feel the fear.

I ask for her name, hoping the threat of a complaint might back her down a bit.

"I'M LISTENING!"

I quickly see that she can't be reasoned with. I retreat.

LISTENING keeps coming forward. I tell her that I don't want to have this conversation any more. She is undeterred.

I walk further away. In hindsight, I wish I had backed away slowly, as one does from a bear, because fleeing only seemed to encourage her.

She follows. She says she's listening. I tell her it doesn't matter. She says she's listening. I deploy my hand gesture again but it's futile.

I make for the stairs, the nearest high ground. People are beginning to look, but I don't care.

I tell her to get away as I climb the stairs, but it's useless. She's smiling at the bottom, shouting that she's listening.

I don't know if you've ever watched "The Shining", but as I am retreating up the stairs, I really feel as if I should have a baseball bat for self defence.

Sweating and scared, and with the mindset now of a cornered animal, I make my final stand. "I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU!"

The shop is silent. Bystanders are aghast. The thought of one of them intervening gives me hope.

There is a pause.

"Get out ma shop!" She finally shouts, Shrekily.

I've never been thrown out of a shop before. Who knew it'd be such a relief.

I did not look back. On dark nights I tell myself that I'm sure I wasn't pursued, but in truth I can only testify that I did not look back.

Reader, save yourself from this Waterstones. It's not worth it. I haven't had a good night's sleep since. Please, if you need a book, buy a second-hand book. Support your local charity shops. Heck, write the book yourself. Just don't come to Stirling Waterstones.

P.S. To the manager, if you're reading this (or, if you prefer, LISTENING): I am sorry that you ended up working as a Waterstones manager instead of your true calling as Frasier Crane's evil sidekick. I hope that your knitwear unravels and your houseplants all wither. I bet your dog doesn't like you, he's just being...

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