Daft Old Duffer returns. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
For a while I lived in a satellite town situated some five or six miles outside London.
Like most such areas it had, hidden discreetly away from us ordinary folk living in ordinary streets, an enclave of the wealthy, tucked away in gated and security-patrolled private roads.
One day I had to go up to the City of London to attend an interview.
While waiting my turn in the reception area I was surprised to see a van belonging to a local dry-cleaning shop cruise by the window.
I was acquainted with the owner of the shop, so when next I met up with him, I asked him what one of his vehicles was doing so far from base. And he explained it was on a regular run, collecting items that required cleaning from a famous London store.
Treated like Royalty
The story was that, for many of the inhabitants of the private-road ghettoes, employing local trades people and shops was rather below their dignity. For them, all goods and services had to come from the Prestige store. Where, after all, Royalty was known to be regular clients.
So, if they required curtains, clothes, bed linen, dry cleaned they telephoned one of the Prestige store’s vans to travel out the five or so miles and collect.
From here to there and back again twice
The posh van then transported the soiled goods to their store in the centre of London. From where the owner of the local dry cleaners collected them and took them back to his shop, situated less than a quarter of a mile from the original collection point.
There the good were cleaned and then returned to the Prestige store. Who then loaded them into one of their posh vans and returned them back to the original client.
Paying for the privilege
And shortly afterwards billed him or her for the cost of the dry cleaning, plus the cost of the multi-transportation, plus the Prestige store’s own considerable mark-up.
The whole transaction thereby taking far longer and costing far more than if he/she had telephoned direct to their local shop a few streets away.
Still, said vans of course did boldly display their famous name as they drew up outside the client’s home, making all the neighbours aware that only the best was considered good enough for that household.
More money than sense
The motto I suppose, is that where there’s money there’s not necessarily intelligence.
