FOR the first 50 years of my life, I was like most of you – I seldom complained. If someone bumped into me, I was the one who said "sorry". If I got a Basil Fawlty waiter in a restaurant, I made excuses for their rudeness. When somebody cut in front of me in a queue, I'd say nothing and just roll my eyes.
That all changed when I hit the half-century. I don't know if my altered attitude happened because my quota of tolerance ran out or, realising I was over the hill and trundling towards the grave, I decided enough was enough. But changed I have, and I don't see me changing back.
Don't get me wrong, I was never a complete softie; in fact, I could be a nightmare if angered. Invariably, this happened most often in my youth when I spent an inordinate amount of time in drinking establishments.
The rows almost always began with me saying, "Why don't you leave him alone and pick on somebody your own size?" Having then became the focus of the bully's attention, either he, myself or both of us ended the evening in A&E getting stitched up.
It took me years to mind my own business and stop behaving like an unpaid bodyguard. Even better, I stopped visiting bars, which has resulted in me not needing stitches in over 30 years.
But while I'd no fear of bar brawls, when faced with bad service I'd melt. My mantra was "I don't want to make a fuss", and so I tolerated cold coffee, food not cooked to my taste and poor service from whatever professional I happened to encounter.
And I don't think I'm alone. Ask yourself this: when was the last time you complained about anything? We've a tendency to keep quiet and put up with shoddy products and poor service. And, so long as we continue to do so, guess what - we'll get shoddy products and poor service.
To my surprise, I've discovered complaining can be fun – if it's done with a bit of sensitivity and wit, an example being my 'fight' with Belfast City Council over the gates at Belfast Castle.
It started when I noticed that one of the gates' pillars was completely covered in ivy while the other remained pristine. The pillars are a rare surviving example of Victorian architecture and, having only recently been restored, it seemed a shame they now risked being damaged due to lack of care.
And so I took to Twitter on October 16 to enquire about the reason for them not being maintained. I got a reply from the Council on the 19th thanking me for bringing the problem to their attention. They explained they'd be looking at potential solutions but noted the pillars' proximity to residential property.
I replied with a photo of the pillars on the 20th, pointing out both were equidistant from residential properties, therefore how was that relevant? I received a reply the same day that checks were being made on where the ivy was coming from and that it would be trimmed back shortly.
I was tempted to respond that, while not a horticulturalist, I was pretty sure the source of the ivy would be found in the ground. I exercised restraint as the job was getting done, so instead thanked them and promised to stop my pestering.
It took almost a week but, good to their word, the Council did remove the ivy; well, almost. On top of the pillar sits a heraldic sculpture of what look like greyhounds holding a plaque – this remained covered.
So, on the 26th, I complimented the Council on a great start to the work but asked why all the ivy wasn't removed. I suggested the problem may have been the member of staff given the job was 4ft tall and only received a 2ft ladder.
As of today, October 28, I've yet to receive a reply, and if I get one, I wouldn't be surprised if I'm told that, due to health and safety issues, a cherry picker is required to remove the ivy at the top.
No doubt the Council workers call me Victor Meldrew, along with a few other choice names. I don't care – my advice is to release your inner Victor, you'll feel much better and discover that tilting at windmills can be fun.
With that in mind complaints about this column can be sent to: The Irish News, 113-117 Donegall Street, Belfast BT1 2GE.
