After a bit of a break from the blog, I had planned to jump full scale in this week with lots of pre planned posts on all things volunteering and stuff. The usual. But something happened this week which made me stop and pause and reflect. My gorgeous cat Ollie was put to sleep on Monday after a hard battle, and I am at a complete loss without him.
For those that don’t own pets, or say that cats are standoffish and aloof, this post my seem overly sentimental, or possibly a bit mad. But Ollie was my antidote to life, my sunshine after a hard day and my best friend. He would curl up in bed with me, talk to me, follow me round the house and nudge my face when I was down. Sometimes he would chase his tail and then get coy and embarrassed when I laughed. He would dive face first into my dinner if it was fish and happily sit next to me when I got my Eastenders fix. He was, quite simply, perfect.
Except sadly he wasn’t – he developed renal failure at only seven years old, something that we couldn’t fix no matter how much we wanted to.
Ollie came into my life just over five years ago. He was originally Andrew, my husband’s cat whom he rescued via the RSPCA. He went to find a cat to adopt from an RSPCA cattery full of the little creatures, and Ollie was gingerly peering down from on top of a tall fridge freezer saying “take me home” with those big soulful eyes. It was love at first sight. So home with Andrew he went.
Andrew split up with his then partner, and had to leave Ollie behind in the home they shared. A little while later, he moved in with me, in my tiny one room studio flat on the second floor, and as much as we wanted a cat of our own, we knew that we couldn’t and resolved to befriending a local cat (who we called Elvis) and making plans for cat rescue when we had a bigger place.
We’d been living together about 6 months when we had a call – Andrew’s ex was going to take Ollie back to the RSPCA. We were concerned and hatched a plan to bring him home and find somewhere loving for him to go ourselves. We couldn’t bear the thought of him going back there. A couple of weeks later we’d found somewhere to take him and drove to pick him up. I sat in the back with Ollie on the 90 minute journey home, reassuring him and talking to him, and very quickly falling in love. I mean look at that face? How could I resist.
We were not taking him to his new home until the next day, so that night we grabbed some fish and chips and settled in. Ollie helped himself to a large portion of cod and we all went to bed. I awoke the next day to find this tabby bundle of fur curled up into my chest purring looking up at me. Those eyes again! Andrew went off to football, and Ollie stayed by my side all day and we slowly got acquainted. I loved him terribly already but we couldn’t keep him. Could we?
Andrew came home and I could tell his heart was broken at the thought of taking him away. Ollie responded to his Daddy’s voice, the one that he recognised and in that moment we knew that whilst not ideal, with us he had to stay. And he did.
Over the next six months we went from a studio flat to a three bed house, and really began our life together. Over the years Ollie watched his Mummy and Daddy get married, got lost in the school fields next to our house, welcomed reluctantly his brother Clive into our family and gave us so much joy that we cannot even explain all our treasured memories.
Last year I went to New York with my mum, and as we were leaving the hotel to come home, we got a call. It was Ollie. He’d been taken to the emergency hospital and was very very sick. I was in bits. He didn’t have his Mummy to protect him, and I wasn’t sure he’d make it through my flight.
I raced to the hospital when I got home and found a very sick cat. He had renal failure, and they didn’t think he’d make it. We went back every day to see him, to cuddle him and encourage him to eat and every day I said goodbye. But he fought. And he battled. And got strong enough to come home. The vet gave him a week. But all of a sudden, November became December, and our little soldier got stronger and stronger. Not totally himself, but with sparks of the Ollie we knew.
Christmas was lovely with Ollie and our other cat Clive and I had started to take for granted that he’d be around for ever. He beat the vets, I thought. He is a super cat! And I loved him even more.
Last week, all of a sudden he took a turn for the worst. We took him to our local vet who eventually, with sadness in her voice, told us that this was it. Ollie had fought his last battle. We had a sad last weekend with him. I tried to breathe him in, to sleep with him, to pour my love on him. But my heart was breaking into a million pieces.
On Monday morning, at 9.30am, Ollie was sedated in my arms and we all cuddled one last time. He went to sleep quickly and peacefully and we said our last goodbyes and I gave him my last kisses. I still can’t believe that he is gone. Clive, his little brother has started looking for him, and I have too.
Saying goodbye is never easy, but we loved him, and he knew that. For five years I gave him the best life I could, and now that little star is looking over me and all of us, and saying – “don’t be sad Mummy”, like he always used to do. And I am mouthing back “I love you Oggifer”.
As my friend Mike said this week – he was just too damn beautiful for this mortal earth.
It’s a question of service, isn’t it?
I’ve often pondered about what makes great service. Someone who smiles and asks how you are? The attentive but not obtrusive waiter in your favourite restaurant? That shop assistant who goes the extra mile to find those shoes in your size? I’m sure we’ve all experienced good service in our time, but often, it’s the poor service that we crow about. Is it because we are a nation of whingers, or is it because we receive so little good service in this country that when we get it, we just don’t know what to do with ourselves?
I pondered this question whilst away in Mexico a few weeks ago. Granted, I had paid for an all inclusive resort that was five stars, and therefore you would expect fantastic service to be part of the deal. No one goes on holiday to be tutted at and dismissed, right? Whilst true, the level of service I experienced in Mexico was something else. The smiles, the warmth and genuine appreciation that you were there, making sure everything was just right. Even on the beach, the amazing Miguel who served us ice cold cocktails couldn’t be nicer. The staff at the hotel were happy, and even if they hated their jobs they definitely didn’t show it.
Contrast with an experience I had in an upmarket London hotel, where myself and Mr S used some vouchers gifted to us on our Wedding Day to have a spa and hotel break experience. We were tutted at, rushed, pushed about in the spa and the staff seemed genuinely unhappy to be doing their jobs. Some even bitched about it in very obvious earshot of customers. It was a real shame, and it dampened our experience of our wedding present.
So why the huge difference in what should have been essentially two very similar hotel experiences? My answer is value. What value do we, as a nation, place on those who enter service type roles? Be that in the tourism industry, in retail or even in call centres, I’d argue very little. I’ve watched people denigrate waiters and waitresses, and how often do you hear on X Factor the story of a girl who hates her life as a sales assistant and can’t wait to hit the big time?
I’m not criticising those who hate their service jobs. I didn’t enjoy mine either, and I didn’t feel valued by my managers or the public at large as I stacked shelves in Asda or worked the checkouts. It was a miserable existence being looked down on by every customer that came to my till. And I couldn’t wait to leave.
In Mexico, things are completely different. For a start, the tourism industry, like in so many similar places, is the one of the largest employers and many people desperately want to work at the hotels that dot along the coastline. Secondly, if they do manage to land a job whether behind the bar, in one of the restaurants or managing the entertainment, it is looked upon as something to be pleased about, to be celebrated. I had a number of conversations with both barmen and spa therapists whilst on holiday who couldn’t be happier with a job like this.
Finally, for the most part, when travelling to these hotels most people are polite, kind and above all respectful to those in this role. Far more than we would be at home. That said, I saw some shocking examples of rudeness, arrogance and downright hateful behaviour which made me incredibly sad. Not nice to the waiter? Not a nice person in my book.
So the morale of this over long tale is this: we all like to experience good service. It makes us feel great and makes the world a happier place when people get on and talk to each other. But we don’t get it as often as we’d because we don’t value our service industry heroes, and we can be rude and unkind.
So next time you are in Starbucks, why not chat to the barista and ask how there day is going? You might get a smiley face on your cup just like me.
Leave a Comment
Filed under Comment
Tagged as Comment, Opinion, Service, Waiter, Waitressing