Orna Mulcahy on people we all know
Margaret's social life virtually revolves around the customer service desk of Marks & Spencer, where she is constantly queuing to return clothes that turned out not to suit her after all. Of course, if she made use of the changing rooms she could avoid the fuss, but they're so claustrophobic and the lights make her look ill. No, better to take things home to her own full-length mirror, where she can see properly if a thing suits her or not. Anyway, she doesn't mind a bit of fuss and at least Marks will take things back, no questions asked.
Elsewhere, Margaret often has to fight long and hard to get satisfaction. The problem is that there is so little quality around these days, says Margaret, who is still using an Aquascutum raincoat bought in the 1970s and wears her Hermès scarves in a style copied from Princess Grace. These days, items of clothing seem to disintegrate the moment she puts them on - heels fall off shoes, wool unravels, strong colours leech into her bra and seams pop open almost as soon as she eases new trousers up over her ample backside. None of this is ever her fault, even if she sometimes leaves it a good long time to return the item in question, in some cases so long that the style is no longer in stock.
Her purse bulges with receipts and credit notes, some of them dating back to the 1990s, but God help any assistant who tells her they're not valid. Managers are called for, customer charters invoked and rights asserted, and Margaret usually wins. Occasionally, though, she meets her match, as she did the other day in her favourite store where nice Mr McSherry, who ran Menswear since the year dot, had been replaced by a ruthless young fellow who insisted that he could do nothing for her. He was so rude, she feels she must write a letter on the heavily engraved cards that she keeps for her most bitter complaints.
However, she did score a major coup bringing back most of her daughter's wedding presents, even those that were on the wedding list, and she is now shaping up for a battle royal re her new mattress which, after just a month, has the same dip as the 30-year-old one she had just thrown out.
All this complaining is almost a full-time job but Margaret still has time to stand, arms akimbo, in the supermarket car-park, waiting for the owner of a black SUV to come back so that she can give them a piece of her mind about taking up two spaces with their atrocious parking. She also has a thing about people urinating in public places and will shout "Use a toilet!" as she passes by street corners and doorways. Which is why even her children don't like going into to town with her any more. She's just too embarrassing.