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On dignity and sandwiches

I love the Scandinavian deli near my office where I go at least once a week for a spot of lunchtime smorgasbord. I love the fish paste and meatballs and rye bread and liver pate and all those other delightful treats that British people don’t really eat. But I really hate the way that when I go to buy my lunch there, if I am unlucky enough to be served by one particular deli employee, I must endure a barrage of weird compliments as he fishes my open-faced sandwiches out of the case with metal tongs.

Oh, I realise that his intent is unlikely to be sinister, but what I believe is intended to be friendly and flirtatious just comes over as patronising and creepy, as if the only way that this chap can regard me (besides as an enthusiastic consumer of hot smoked salmon and beetroot on small slices of sourdough bread) is as decorative.

I realise that making sandwiches is probably quite dull, and I am well up for chat, but if it never gets past ‘What kind of salad do you want, Gorgeous? Here’s your change, Princess’ then I just find it all a bit demeaning and tiresome.

I do hate having to choose between dignity and sandwiches.