If you’re sitting comfortably, then I’ll begin. It was rather like ‘Listen with Mother’ in our office the other day, when a group of nursery school children came to visit. Their teacher had contacted me some time previously to ask if she could bring her charges in to learn about what a travel agent is.
“They can identify all the other shops on the high street,” she said, “including the estate agent and the solicitor, but they have no idea what the purpose of a travel agency is.”
I imagine the children assume that, like everything else – clothes, books, DVDs, wives – you get holidays from the internet. I was determined to disabuse them of this view, and, with the thought that, when it comes to marketing, it’s important to get them while they’re young, I agreed immediately to help educate the small people, and, by stealth, their parents.
I suggested a time when the shop is usually fairly quiet and they duly trooped in. Of course, the law of the universe that governs predictions and forecasts meant it was actually much busier than usual, and there was barely room for all the little bottoms on the carpet.
Still, we bravely launched into an explanation of the role of the travel agent, emphasising how much more secure mummy and daddy’s holiday would be if booked with us, while other clients flicked through brochures and gazed on, smiling fondly.
The teacher ushered the children over to the large map of the world on the wall and began pointing out countries.
“There’s Australia,” she said, jabbing in the direction of the Northern Territory, “now, how would we get to Australia?”
A number of hands shot up into the air, and one little boy with trainers that lit up every time he stamped his foot on the floor (which was often) declared that he would travel by bus. “The one that stops outside the sweet shop,” he added.
The other clients in the shop all joined in, with one couple volunteering information about their own visit to the country and the animals they’d seen. Our question-and-answer session was going better than I could have imagined, and it was only when a young man entered the shop attached to a pit bull terrier that things drew to a hasty conclusion.
The dog clearly unsettled the children – frankly, it unsettled me, too – and the teacher gathered her charges and left, though not before we’d had time to hand out business cards and encourage them to tell mummy and daddy that they should buy their holidays in our shop.
An Abi occasion
On the subject of mummies and daddies, I spoke to Abigail Silver, Tourism Authority of Thailand’s sales manager, the day before she was due to take her maternity leave.
“When is the baby due?” I asked.
“Next week,” she replied, casually.
“If you’re not careful, you might have a TAT baby,” I laughed.
“That’s what my colleagues are saying,” Abi rejoined, “but I’ve told them it’s okay: I know I’m having a girl, so if I give birth in the office, I’ll call her Tatiana!”
I bet everybody breathed a sigh of relief when she finally put her coat on and headed out of that door the next day.
Fatboy’s din at Thomson
As sure as eggs is eggs, if you listen to something for long enough, it will drive you mad. Think about it. That’s why the Americans played Bruce Springsteen 24/7 to the inmates of Guantanamo Bay and why the authorities in Christchurch, New Zealand, played Barry Manilow songs endlessly as a strategy to deter youngsters from loitering in the town centre.
Thomson must have something similar in mind, though I can’t quite work out what I’ve done that means I must listen to Fatboy Slim’s Praise You for time without end as I wait to speak to an adviser.
I know I’m not the only one who now dreads picking up the phone and dialling Thomson’s number, so I’m begging, on behalf of everyone who’s moved on from the music of 1999 Change the record!
Witch hunt in Somerset
For those who can no longer take the dire music torture, there are other jobs out there. One in particular captured my imagination.
The job centre in Wells, Somerset, is advertising for a witch to inhabit the Wookey Hole Caves nearby. With a pro rata salary of £50,000, it’s an attractive proposition for anyone with an interest in turning milk sour, causing crops to fail and hanging out with moggies. If I weren’t allergic to cats myself, I might even consider it.
Maureen Hill works at Travel Angels in Gillingham, Dorset
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