I never used to complain when I received bad service. Obviously I would bitch and whine later on (when it was way too late) but I would be too embarrassed to say anything at the time.

Then I lived in France for a bit. And learned to toughen up. A combination of almost universally crappy service in Paris and a culture where you spoke your mind did me the world of good.

Today I am a complainer. I am polite but bloody persistent, which explains why I’ve had sizeable discounts on lots of things in the house where companies stuffed up the order, or the delivery, or whatever. I haven’t managed to perfect what India Knight once referred to as her mother’s “stoat-vole” look, but mentally I am channelling that, with a smile on my face, when I go in to complain.

I’ve still got a way to go to catch up with the mother in law though. When she encounters shocking service, she smiles, draws herself up to her full 5′ 2″ height and says “what is your name please?”. When they mumble “John”, she says “thank you John. I will be recommending you for retraining”. Go Mum.