The old man in the wheelchair has been back again. We are quickly becoming mortal enemies. He refuses to come anywhere near the bar, and I refuse to serve him from his sofa at the back of the pub where he sits, bellowing for a cup of coffee.
The first time, I did serve him. He sent me back to the bar for some extra sugar. Then again for a muffin, and a third time for a new spoon. Quite apart from the fact that we do not offer table service, I began to suspect he enjoyed this irritable fetch-and-carry game. Every time I was sent back to the bar, he would look around, raise his eyebrows and tut, “barmaids these days eh? Got to keep ’em in line, haven’t you?”
Now, I go nowhere near his sofa, and feign deafness as his shouting gets more and more angry. Eventually one of the other customers, looking faintly upset, comes to the bar to place his order instead, the entire time looking at me as if I am Satan’s spawn, on a personal vendetta against the disabled.
