EVERY week this newspaper features columns that celebrate the excellence of local cafes, restaurants and hostelries.

They invariably conjure up images of friendly staff serving wholesome fare in pleasant surroundings.

This column begs to differ. Because after I’ve read those columns, I always ask myself: “Just where am I going wrong?” It’s unfair, I know. I often get excellent service when I go for a meal or a coffee. But it’s the nightmares that stick with you and, to be honest, I think I get more than my fair share.

Take the other weekend. I won’t name the location to spare the blushes of the businesses.

Suffice to say it wasn’t Middlesbrough, or I would now be having an interesting conversation with our tourism department.

It was mid-afternoon and I was in search of coffee. At my first port of call, the coffee machine was broken, news the assistant announced with a distinct note of triumph in her voice. Second stop, they had run out, prompting me to query whether we now had rationing as well as a recession. My attempt to lighten the mood was not well received.

The third shop had “just finished serving”

even though it was 30 minutes to closing. So, by now feeling like some unwitting stooge in a TV wind-up, I had one last shot. To my surprise, I found somewhere open and serving.

Relieved and relaxed, I sat down with my drink just in time to witness an extraordinary spectacle. The woman behind the counter was haranguing a customer who had asked for a dish, quite an ordinary dish, in fact. But it wasn’t on the menu.

On and on she went at this poor woman, about how she could never imagine anyone eating anything like that. Embarrassed customers slipped away as the tirade went on. I felt a bit like the conductor in that piece of classical music where, one by one, the members of the orchestra leave the stage; or Gordon Brown at a Cabinet meeting.

Later, as I was driving home, it struck me that while none of the places I visited were exactly bursting at the seams, they were still doing a reasonable trade. What must the really ropy joints be like, I asked myself. Could it be they were all just having a really bad day? Was I expecting too much?

Maybe it was a combination of all those things, but in essence, we’re a long-suffering lot aren’t we? The childhood injunction, “Now, don’t make a fuss”, still rings loud in our ears. It was drilled into us by parents who belonged to a generation where restraint was the norm and rationing a reality. In an era of austerity, complaining wasn’t just bad manners; it was pretty pointless, too.

Maybe that’s why, even in our consumerdriven society, we still happily put up and shut up. When you see someone making a fuss in a shop or office, our sympathies are almost always with whoever’s on the receiving end.

This in-built, almost instinctive tolerance can be infuriating, but it’s an endearing characteristic, too – a good fault. It’s one of the things that still makes this country such a pleasant and peaceful place to live.

Our tolerance isn’t limitless though, as our political classes are currently finding out.

Our fuse burns slowly, but it can still cause a pretty spectacular explosion.

That’s because next to tolerance, a sense of what’s right and a passion for fair play are our most prominent national traits.

Ignore us, put us off, tell us to call back when you’re not so busy and we’ll probably shrug and say okay. But never ever take us for mugs. Surely that’s not too much to ask?