Recently, I popped into the barber’s with my boyfriend. “The usual?” asked the stylist as he walked in – and I felt a pang of jealousy. Later, we went to our favourite butcher’s. The butcher spoke to us with familiarity, but not as much as when another customer arrived. “Hello, Sue,” the butcher said brightly. And my boyfriend’s face flashed with jealousy.
What is it about being a regular that is so aspirational? Is it the implication of favours (freebies, the best table), or is it the feeling of extended family, of generous people who offer a glimmer of care in a world that feels bereft of it? Whatever it is, I want it.
This is a new development. I’ve never been a regular, nor wanted to be: when I was growing up, it meant being easily trackable under the hawkish eyes of the Asian aunties patrolling the neighbourhood, exerting power through gossip and samosas. In my single, party-girl days, it meant running into nocturnal people in the unforgiving daylight – the bartender who saw me cry, the one-night stand I never liked but stupidly texted. Anonymity was all I wanted.
But something’s changed and I’m making an effort. I started with the trendy coffee shop, but when a waiter rolled his eyes at me for looking confused at a courgette cake, I stormed out in a suitable manner (that is, loudly slamming shut my MacBook and leaving with my bamboo coffee mug).
Instead, I’m working on the new Italian deli. They need customers, and I need ciabatta and validation. It’s going well. My GCSE phrases are politely smiled upon. Sometimes I even get a reply (in Italian!) to questions such as, “How many animals live in your house?” and, “Does Beppe go to the church?”
Surely I’m just a few more visits away from a free shot of espresso? I live in hope.
