Lateral Queuing

In his permanent quest to prove it is in no way impossible that those who are the last to join a queue can be the first to leave it, the Frenchman has at his disposal an infinite number of techniques, one of the more widespread of which is the practice of ‘lateral’ or ‘side queuing’. My French alter has kindly offered to explain.

     Bonjour tout le monde. The aim of side queuing is, above all, psychological in that it is directed towards creating and then exploiting confusion in the minds of other queuers. As the term suggests, the technique consists in casually positioning yourself at the side, as near as possible to the front, rather than tidily behind the last person at the back as the sheep-like English are programmed to do. By doing this, it is hoped that at some time during progression towards the exit, it will be possible to take advantage of the doubt created in the minds of those already queuing as to the exact moment of your arrival in relation to theirs, and sneak in well before your turn. Moreover, in the event of protest on the part of those behind you (it does occasionally happen), positioning yourself laterally presents the immense advantage, especially when your trolley or basket is heavily laden, of allowing you to justify your action by invoking the pointless expenditure of energy required in pushing it right round to the back. Moreover, the more accomplished side queuer can make the strategy even more convincing by accompanying his explanation by heart-rending sighs of fatigue.

     Another not negligible advantage of this method is that when objections are encountered you may save face by retreating into feigned absent-mindedness, or ignorance as to the exact instant of your arrival at the side of the queue in relation to those already in it. But you can take it from me that, contrary to appearances (in France, things are never what they seem and never seem what they are), this type of master un-queuer is keenly alert – stealthily poised to exploit the slightest inattention. And what beats it all is that, when more stubborn opposition is encountered, you can even obtain a rousing moral victory by withering the remonstrator(s) with a look of lofty disdain, intended to bring it firmly home that there are more important things in life than this type of petty consideration. Obviously, this kind of creative un-queuing can only be effective under the right conditions, i.e. busy airports, supermarkets on Friday or Saturdays evenings, or on the eve of public holidays when the volume of trade is such that queues stretch a long way back.

     

The same technique may also be resorted to in ski-lift queues. In these circumstances successful application is considerably facilitated by the nature of the sport itself which requires participants to wear appendages extending some distance ahead of, and behind feet, thereby rendering conventional rectilinear queuing totally impractical (ten skiers aligned with skis attached would probably occupy a distance which could accommodate 50 ski-less queuers). As a result, ski-lift queuing automatically generates lateral bunching which provides even the most inexperienced un-queuer with a multitude of opportunities to improve his technique. And so much do queues of this kind make speedy advancement a matter of such elementary simplicity that they provide the perfect training ground for our French youngsters to begin their un-queuing apprenticeship. Moreover, it is interesting to note that, in spite of my English brother’s attempts to make us believe his compatriots are at all times respectful queuers, English skiers – no doubt working off the accumulated frustrations occasioned by the uncompromising rigidity of queuing at home – are, along with their skis, letting their sense of fair play slip. And such is the enthusiasm shown that I have every reason to believe they will take full advantage of the lessons and experience it has been our privilege to provide them with in order to apply similar techniques on returning home.

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The Art of Un-Queuing

A Roundabout Notion of Linearity?

Though the word ‘queue’ is shared by both English and French, nothing embodies more the gaping chasm that exists between the two peoples than their attitudes to, and behaviour in this mundane line: for its configuration differs so much in outward appearance and inner workings that, for the Englishman in me, it is doing the term a grave injustic to use it to describe the loose bunching and jockeying for position which goes under this same name on the Gallic side of the Channel.

Military-Style Alignement

     The English approach to queuing is of child-like simplicity, being based exclusively on the principle of military-style, single-file alignment in strict accordance with the rule of ‘First In, First Out.’ As a result, the Englishman is prepared to spend a not inconsiderable amount of time patiently waiting his turn – provided, of course, that others do the same. For when other queuers show the same scrupulous respect for the rule he will relax and, amazingly, even enjoy himself.

A Fascinating Diversion

     For example, my own Englishman will while away time spent in a supermarket line by honing his skills of empirical deduction through a fascinating diversion which consists in determining the occupation of fellow queuers by the articles reposing in their trolley. And at the time of writing, he has identified, with a high degree of probability, an alcoholic bee-keeper, a sweet-toothed house-husband, and a transvestite hooker with bunions.

Unbounded Fury

     However, the slightest deviation from the implacable rule of queuing which states that the first to join shall be the first to leave will unleash unbounded fury on the part of the English – so much so that very few allowances are made. I’m reminded of an incident some time ago when my poor mother who, in her mid-eighties and only partially sighted, mistakenly joined a queue in the middle. In spite of   her age and infirmity, that stony-hearted English queuing law was applied in all its relentless rigour, and she was sternly enjoined to ‘get to the back!’  

Freudian Complexity

    The Gallic attitude to Queuing, on the other hand, is of Freudian complexity. After close observation of his French alter my English part is tempted to think that when a Frenchman appends himself to that shapeless formation which in France masquerades under the name ‘queue’ (in spite of Cartesian precedent when it comes to queuing the French have a roundabout conception of linearity), he is seized by feelings of depersonalization and a resulting loss of self-esteem. Thus, the only way for him to re-find his identity and self respect is to accept the challenge which consists in proving to himself that he has enough personal resources to minimize to a maximum time spent in the line.

Every Man for Himself

     Nevertheless, far be it for my Englishman to suggest that the rule of ‘First Come First Served’ is unknown to the French, and that the Gallic is not aware that un-queueing – necessarily to the detriment of others – can be contrary to accepted standards of fair play. The importance he attaches to le Système D is such, however, that he simply has a far less degree of conviction than the English queuer. And so, though he may well be piqued on observing that another has jumped the queue before him, his annoyance (which may even be tinged with grudging admiration), results less from the fact that the offender has infringed the sacrosanct Anglo-Saxon rule than that he has proved himself ‘beaucoup plus malin’, much smarter, in finding a way round it. As a result, whenever the opportunity presents itself, the non-rule of ‘Every Man for Himself’ is applied.      

Lateral Queuing

    In this respect my Frenchie is especially proud of one instance last year when I went along to our local supermarket to do some last minute Noël shopping. As in England, French supermarkets are very busy places at Christmas time, and my local supermarket is no exception. After completing my purchases, I wheeled my heavily-laden trolley towards check-out (in reality, it was my wily Frenchie who positioned himself so that my Englishman did most of the pushing). Now check-out at this supermarket consists of three cash desks, only two of which were, for some reason or other, in operation at that precise moment. And such was the afflux of shoppers that two long queues snaked back some twenty metres or more between the shelves. It goes without saying that my Englishman was on the point of walking right round and dutifully joining one of the queues from the back. But my Frenchie would have none of it, and positioned me laterally at the front, just by the side of the unstaffed check-out. And then, as he had certainly anticipated, a third check-out girl quickly appeared and proceeded to open up this cash desk. All I had to do (in fact, it was my Frenchie who took complete control) was push my trolley smartly over and empty its contents onto the conveyor belt. So, I was checked out first, well before those sheep who, in some cases, had joined their queue as long as twenty minutes before me!  

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By-Passing le Code de la Route

I just don’t seem to be able to get it through our English alter’s thicker part of my skull that life is too short not to take advantage of every single moment, and that precious time can be wasted blindly following the rule. During the time we were together, Priscille lived with her parents in a small mountain village some five kilomètres from the town where we lived and which could only be reached by a twisting road. Journey time could, however, be reduced by turning left off this road and following another route - a steep, narrow, but relatively straight lane leading directly into the village centre. So narrow was this lane that a one-way system had always operated to the advantage of the coming-downers, the going-uppers being officially informed they must take the longer route by a large No Entry sign located at the intersection. It goes without saying that when our Englishman was at the wheel the words 'No Entry' constituted a barrier as impenetrable as Priscille’s virtue and, as I never failed to remind him, we stupidly lost up to five minutes following the longer main road to the village instead of taking the short-cut.

     Things really came to a head, however, when a section of the main road between the short-cut intersection and the village was partially blocked by a landslide, and a one-way system, regulated by temporary traffic lights, was put into operation. When our English part was at the wheel, not only did he continue to take the same route, but he actually waited when the lights were red, frequently wasting precious time. What I could never get into his bird-sized part of our brain was that, even if we took the short-cut, the limited number of inhabitants, the remote location of the village, as well as the time of day (usually we called on Priscille and her parents in the evening after dinner) weighed the law of probability heavily in favour of us not meeting a going-downer on our way up.

     Of course, much to our Englishman’s extreme discomfort, whenever our Frenchman was in control, we always took the shorter way up. This choice always turned out to be right, except on one occasion when we had to stop and pull in to one side to let a coming-downer through. He, of course, in true French fashion, left us in no doubt of his opinion on the matter by lowering his window, sticking his head out and bellowing, ‘Ca ne va pas la tête, non?’ However, this allusion to the softness of our brains was due less to the fact that we’d infringed the rule than the slight personal inconvenience he’d been caused: for this certainly didn’t prevent him from taking the same short-cut himself when he became a going-upper on his way back.

     Sooner or later, of course, life’s journey leads us on a collision course with those officially appointed to make sure rules and regulations are respected. It must not be imagined, however, that because a French policeman is clad in blue, a heart of gold doesn’t beat beneath. What I don’t seem to be able to get through to our rosbif is that, with the help of le Système D, this type of encounter is far from obliging you to resign yourself to the worst. During the short time Priscille and ourself were together (the poor girl soon realized she couldn’t cope with an English and Frenchman rolled into one), whenever my Frenchy was driving and we were stopped by les flics for exceeding the speed limit, he’d given her strict instructions to pretend to give us a resounding telling-off (towards the end I suspected she wasn’t acting at all). At the same time, our Anglo didn’t have to force himself to impart a typically English, sheepish expression to our face. In nine cases out of ten the policeman was unable to conceal his amusement and let us off with just a warning! C’est ça, le Système D!

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Getting Round Officialdom

In the course of our everyday life petty officialdom frequently places in our path a host of silly little rules and regulations which, as our Frenchie frequently observes, you Anglo-Saxons resignedly accept as insurmountable hurdles. You just don’t seem to realize it only takes a modicum of resourceful and audacity – the very essence of the Système D - to reduce them to mere stiles to be hopped over with ease. Nothing illustrates this better than that masterpiece of bold inventiveness my Frenchie is especially proud of, which got us round a little snag we had with the la Poste, the Post Office, last year. We’ll leave it to him to relate.  

     The other Saturday morning, on getting back home from our weekly shopping, we found reposing in our letterbox an official post office form, duly completed by the postman, informing us that he’d called at precisely 10.50 a.m. with a lettre recommendée avec accusé de reception, a registered letter whose receipt had to be acknowledged by the signature of the recipient. However, in view of our absence he’d been obliged to take it back to the main post office where it would be available for collection the following Monday morning from eight o’clock onwards (the main post office in the town where we live closes for the weekend at noon on Saturdays). Now past experience has taught us that this sort of missive, often arising from official sources, can, like tap water in foreign climes, be the prelude to a messy business. Being a born worrier, our English half began to fret so much about what it could contain that this threatened to spoil our weekend.

     ‘Well, we’re going to have to wait until Monday morning to know what it’s all about!’ he muttered resignedly.

     ‘Pas du tout, mon pauvre!’ I retorted. ‘Leave it to me. On va se débrouiller!’ It didn’t take me long to concoct a way of getting round all this. Here’s what I did:

     Picking up the phone, I called the main post office and asked to speak to Monsieur le Receveur, the Post Office Manager. Once I’d been put through I began by politely explaining that I had in my hand a post office form which the postman had deposited in our letterbox, informing us that he’d called at precisely 10.50 a.m. that morning with a registered letter which in view of our absence he’d been obliged to take back to the post office.

     Monsieur le Receveur replied – not, I noted, without a trace of irritation - that he didn’t really understand why I was calling, as it was certainly indicated on the post office form that the registered letter would be available for collection on Monday from 8 o’clock onwards.

     ‘In addition,’ he added, ‘the postman was simply following post office regulations.’

     ‘Do post office regulations stipulate,’ I asked, ‘that before taking the registered letter back to the post office, the postman should first use all reasonable means to ascertain whether the addressee is, in fact, at home?’

     Monsieur le Receveur confirmed that official post office procedure did, in fact, require the postman to first use all reasonable means to ascertain whether or not the addressee was, in fact, at home.

     ‘And does using all reasonable means include ringing the doorbell or applying his knuckles to the door?’ I then enquired.

     ‘En effet,’ Monsieur le Receveur replied, ‘official post office regulations are to be interpreted in that sense.’

     ‘And is it your honest opinion we can be absolutely sure the postman acted in full accordance with post office regulations?’ I continued.

     ‘Since all postmen have received strict instructions in this respect, monsieur, I have no reason to believe that he did not act in full accordance with post office regulations.’

     ‘But don’t you think that, since I’ve not put a foot out all morning, some doubt might be cast on whether the postman really acted in full accordance with post office regulations?’

     ‘Might I myself be justified in thinking,’ the post office manager retorted, ‘that when the postman rang the doorbell, you were engaged in some form of sonorous household activity - vacuum cleaning, for instance - which prevented you from hearing him?  But whatever the case may be, you’ll only have to wait until eight o’clock on Monday morning,’ he went on, ‘so I don’t really see where the problem is. And since I’m a busy man, would you please forgive me for abridging this conver…’

     ‘On the contrary,’ I interrupted (and here I showed all my inborn inventive genius), ‘there is a very real problem. You see, I was expecting this registered letter. It contains vital information, determining whether or not I take the six o’clock T.G.V., the High Speed Train, on Monday morning for an important nine o’clock business meeting in Paris. And since I’ve spent all morning quietly reading the newspaper, the only explanation for me not now being in possession of the letter would seem to be due to the fact that the postman, for reasons known only to him, did not act in accordance with post office regulations.’ I paused for a moment to let my words sink in.

     ‘But, whatever the cause may be,’ I continued, ‘there’s absolutely no question of me letting the matter rest here. If I don’t obtain satisfaction, I’m going to lodge an official complaint. So what do you suggest we do about it?’

     After a long and heavy silence, it was, I must confess, with some relief that I heard him pronounce those magic words I was waiting to hear:

     ‘Bon. Exceptionnellement, on va se débrouiller! Voici ce qu’on va faire.’

     He then proposed the very solution I had in mind. Though, normally, it would have been out of the question, in view of these exceptional circumstances, he was prepared to bend the rule. Since it was now going on for midday and the post office would be closing shortly, if I presented ourself at his private flat located to the rear of the building, and identified ourself by giving three sharp raps on the door, he would personally remit the letter to us. This, of course, we did. Everything went without a hitch, the contents of the registered letter weren’t half as bad as our Englishman had thought, and we had an excellent weekend. C’est ça, le Système D. En France, on se débrouille!

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