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Two silhouettes by the cash machine make a lovers dance
Last week I ambled up to a cashpoint and started the process of acquiring money. While doing so, I noticed that the guy at the nextdoor cashpoint was prying part of the plastic fascia off with a screwdriver.
Gosh, I thought. I'm not sure he should be doing that.
Then I noticed that he had on a fluorescent orange jacket. Like most of the world, I have orange jacket syndrome. Hmm. I thought that sufferers of white coat syndrome were inclined to attribute more authority and credence to statements made by white-coated persons. But according to Wikipedia, it's actually that the presence of white coats causes anxiety and raised blood pressure.
Anyway, orange jacket syndrome is the tendency to assume that anyone wearing any form of fluorescent garment is an official employee of the nearest relevant establishment, and thus has a perfect right to be there. Burglars? Stop wearing dark clothes (or stripey jumpers) and get yourself some hi-viz gear.
I cycle to work and, because I'd quite like not to be run over by an errant bus, I wear a jacket of a yellow so bright it can sprain retinas at twenty paces. So far I have not been run over by a bus. I have also fielded an enormous number of enquiries about train times, received a number of complaints about the way First Great Western is run, and directed various people round Reading station. A few weeks ago, someone pushed their way through a packed carriage in order to ask me a question about the train we are on. I knew the answer but so, I imagine, did most of the other people he'd walked past to reach me.
When I don't know the answers, or don't seem inclined to do anything about their complaints, people always seem vaguely aggrieved. What do I mean "I don't work here"!? I'm wearing, like, a luminous jacket.
Anyway, the bloke molesting the ATM next to me was wearing one of those sleeveless orange affairs which I always think of as a diddyjacket, and which is probably called a vest. He was looking pretty luminous and official, so I decided it was probably fine.
Although he did have a bag at his feet, an ordinary, rather 80's-looking, shopper, not the toolbox I might expect from someone fixing an ATM. Which was a bit weird. Maybe he was wise to the game, and was indeed committing crimes in broad daylight and relying on his high-visibility to make sure no one saw him.
As he turned to reach something in his bag, I saw blazoned across the back of his jacket: ATM SANITISER. A what now? Clearly a candidate for B-Ark if ever there was one.
Then I looked at what he was doing, using a piece of stiff plastic to scrape acumulated dust, grease, and fag ash from the corners of the ATM. And I looked at my machine, all sparkly clean. And I got my cash out, and said thank you to him, and went on my way.
That's a job I'd never even realised existed. But I'm really rather glad he's doing it.
Gosh, I thought. I'm not sure he should be doing that.
Then I noticed that he had on a fluorescent orange jacket. Like most of the world, I have orange jacket syndrome. Hmm. I thought that sufferers of white coat syndrome were inclined to attribute more authority and credence to statements made by white-coated persons. But according to Wikipedia, it's actually that the presence of white coats causes anxiety and raised blood pressure.
Anyway, orange jacket syndrome is the tendency to assume that anyone wearing any form of fluorescent garment is an official employee of the nearest relevant establishment, and thus has a perfect right to be there. Burglars? Stop wearing dark clothes (or stripey jumpers) and get yourself some hi-viz gear.
I cycle to work and, because I'd quite like not to be run over by an errant bus, I wear a jacket of a yellow so bright it can sprain retinas at twenty paces. So far I have not been run over by a bus. I have also fielded an enormous number of enquiries about train times, received a number of complaints about the way First Great Western is run, and directed various people round Reading station. A few weeks ago, someone pushed their way through a packed carriage in order to ask me a question about the train we are on. I knew the answer but so, I imagine, did most of the other people he'd walked past to reach me.
When I don't know the answers, or don't seem inclined to do anything about their complaints, people always seem vaguely aggrieved. What do I mean "I don't work here"!? I'm wearing, like, a luminous jacket.
Anyway, the bloke molesting the ATM next to me was wearing one of those sleeveless orange affairs which I always think of as a diddyjacket, and which is probably called a vest. He was looking pretty luminous and official, so I decided it was probably fine.
Although he did have a bag at his feet, an ordinary, rather 80's-looking, shopper, not the toolbox I might expect from someone fixing an ATM. Which was a bit weird. Maybe he was wise to the game, and was indeed committing crimes in broad daylight and relying on his high-visibility to make sure no one saw him.
As he turned to reach something in his bag, I saw blazoned across the back of his jacket: ATM SANITISER. A what now? Clearly a candidate for B-Ark if ever there was one.
Then I looked at what he was doing, using a piece of stiff plastic to scrape acumulated dust, grease, and fag ash from the corners of the ATM. And I looked at my machine, all sparkly clean. And I got my cash out, and said thank you to him, and went on my way.
That's a job I'd never even realised existed. But I'm really rather glad he's doing it.
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