I’m getting more and more annoyed about people being completely ignorant of professional boundaries. My professional boundaries, in particular.
A good example was an encounter I had on Tuesday night. It was 21:05, I had finished work. Pete was there to drive me home, and I was just pulling on my hoody when some disgustingly smiley-and from past experience, ludicrously dependent-man runs up to the desk and begs and pleads with me to help him search a database. And yes, he knows it’s after nine and service hours are over, but oh please, oh please oh please; you’ll help me won’t you? Surprisingly enough, my answer was ‘no’.
But really! I know I have a broad smile, and I know I’m really quite good at appearing interested in your pathetic little problems. I’ve had a lot of experience in looking like I want to help you. But what particular breed of fucktard would expect someone to drop everything at nine o’clock at night and help them just out of the goodness of their own heart? I actually felt insulted.
And it’s not just my library that’s the problem. It’s my local council library as well. I’ll admit that living on a council estate has its perks: there’s never any competition for library books, but being the only person for miles around who reads means that I’m the only person the local library staff have any real contact with. And so they remember me.
Last week I walked in the front door and watched the woman spot me and then scuttle off to the back room. By the time I’d walked up to the service desk she’d reappered waving the book I’d reserved. And then a couple of days ago two of the assistants had a shouting session across the width of the room, arguing about how you spell my name, and in which particular special section they’d put my book. Then I had to smile my way through a truly painful conversation about how I “read proper books” and “come in a lot”. Indeed.
I’ll admit that having books ready for me and being friendly is good customer service. But there’s a line you don’t cross. Peering curiously at every book I take out and oohing and ahhing over it (every time), does somewhat preclude me from taking out stuff on certain topics. Heaven forbid I should ever want any information on-I don’t know-genital herpes or bomb making. The information that I was a sexually deviant terrorist would be around the estate in no time.
So thank god for the internets, really. At least they allow the dignity of personal privacy.