Confessions of a Box Office Manager: When drink orders go wrong

I try not to gasp with shock as I lift my head from the COBO box I'm rifling through and clap eyes on the colourful vision on the other side of the box office counter.

"OH! Gosh! Hello there, I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in, how can I help?" I bluster, ever the consummate professional.

This lady has made an effort. It may be only 3pm on a Monday afternoon but she has made a serious commitment to Swarovski crystals (or they could even be real gems: as a lowly theatre worker I really wouldn't know the difference) and is made up to a level that even a contestant on RuPaul's Drag Race might consider a trifle excessive for broad daylight. She probably looks sensational from a safe distance (about three-quarters of a mile should be sufficient) but up close and personal the effect is slightly overwhelming, especially without prior warning.

Anyway, here she is and she doesn't look happy.

"I'm not happy" she snaps. (See, I told you!)

"Oh dear, I'm sorry, why would that be?" I say, struggling to maintain eye contact.

"Me and my husband was here on Saturday night, right? Loved the show by the way. It's brilliant. Have you seen it? Proper brilliant, babe. See it. You gotta. Right? Anyway, no, look…"

(I AM looking, I wouldn't dare not.)

"The thing is, right: we was here Saturday and it was a special occasion. Was me, my husband and we brung my granddaughter, right?"

(She has a GRANDDAUGHTER?! My respect for this woman is starting to climb. She either started a family extremely young, and so did her offspring, or she has had some extremely good work done, a face full of make-up notwithstanding.)

"And…'ere, are you listening?"

"Sorry, yes, of course I am. You brought your granddaughter on Saturday night…?"

"Yeah. So. We was getting drinks at the bar, right?… A wine for me, a beer for him and a Coke for the little'un, and we thought, well, this being a special occasion, we're gonna order the same again for half time, like ya do. Right?"

"Right."

"Well, it gets to half time and we go to the bar to where our drinks should be, right? And there's a beer, and there's a Coke. Only, there's no wine. So, my husband, well, he's not happy, right? So he goes to the bar… and he has to queue again cos like every bugger in the theatre wants a bleeding drink apparently…"

"Er…right. What happened then?" (I'm on the edge of my seat by this point, bewildered but gripped.)

"When he gets to the front of the queue, right, he says to the barman – Ben – do you know him?"

"Not off the top of my…"

"He goes 'where's my wife's wine?' right, and this Ben goes 'you didn't order no wine' and my husband, he goes 'oh yes I did' and Ben goes, proper aggressive like, 'no you did not' and he starts rifling through this pile of chits."

"Oh dear. That's not good is it?"

"I know, RIGHT?"

"So…" I'm still not quite sure where we're going with this, and frankly I haven't got a clue who Aggressive Ben is as I'm not in charge of the front-of-house staff, being in the Box Office, but I'm happy to let this lady rant at me.

"He was so rude. Especially in front of my granddaughter, so I'm there going 'babe, leave it, leave it, it's not worth it' right but, well, you haven't seen my husband when he's riled. You wouldn't want to."

"No, I'm sure."

"Then this other bloke chimes in, right, and my husband's like 'who the eff are you? It's not your effing wine what's missing is it?' And this Ben he gets this glass of wine and he thrusts it, THRUSTS IT mind you, at my husband and goes 'have that, but I'm telling you now you did not order a wine'. Mortifying it was."

"Yes, it sounds ghastly…"

"Right?!"

"Did you ask to speak to the duty manager, if you weren't happy?"

Her eyes widen. "Oh no! We don't like to make no fuss. No, but the bloke from the bar…"

"Aggressive Ben? I mean, Ben?"

"No, not him, the one who chimed in-"

"Oh right yes, I'm with you now-" (My head is starting to spin.)

"Yeah, right, he comes over to our seats and I thought oh Christ here we go, it's all gonna kick off now, and do you know what he does?"

"What does he do?" (Tell me! Tell me now!)

"He puts his hand out to my husband and he says to him 'I know that wasn't you, mate. It was that plonker behind the bar. No hard feelings. Stay lucky.' And then he just walks away. Just like that."

She stares at me fixedly through the glass. I know the next line is technically mine but I have no idea what it should be. I think saying 'right' again could come across as a bit sarcastic. Right?

"Good grief," I finally come out with, after what feels like half an hour. Lame.

"Yeah" she glares, "RIGHT."

"So, um, how can I actually help you today? If you want to make an official complaint I'm happy to give you the house manager's email address. I know they're not in the building at the moment."

"I'm not the kind of woman who writes in. That's not me, darling. No, i just wanted for you to be aware of this Ben. I don't want him to lose his job, right, that's not what I'm about. Maybe haul him over the coals a bit. Tell him to sort his attitude out, ya know?"

I was going to helpfully suggest a public flogging or ritual disembowelment but I think it may be too soon in our relationship for that. So instead I say "I will certainly pass your comments on. I'm really sorry you got such poor service on this occasion."

"That's alright, darling. I just wanted to get it off me chest. You look after yourself, right?" and away she totters on the highest of heels.

"Right! Thanks for stopping by!"

Well, that broke my afternoon up a little. I will speak to the house manager about what happened – going to the theatre is expensive and all patrons deserve to be spoken to politely and respectfully – but in all honesty there's not much that can be done if she's not prepared to complain officially. I expect Ben – whoever he is – will get a rap on the knuckles but at least the customers got their wine eventually and, hey, nobody died, right?!