That “be careful what you wish for” saying is so darn true.

This morning I was out to breakfast with some friends who were kind enough to visit me here in the old Steak and Kid, and we were talking about our plans for the rest of the day once we parted ways.

I was telling them that I had to write my column for the week, and how I didn’t have a topic yet. I had planned on having another one of smutty rants that I subject the good people of Clifton to ready to go earlier in the week, but that clearly didn’t happen. Don’t ask me what I did with my spare time all week – partly because I can’t remember and partly because I don’t like being made aware of exactly how many hours of home reno shows I watch in a week.

I was explaining to them that I had nothing to write about, secretly wishing that I had done something significantly awkward or embarrassing that week because those columns basically write themselves. All I needed was a nice uncomfortable moment to over-analyse and I would be home free.

Then I went up to pay for my breakfast.

I used my debit card and I mindlessly started punching in my pin number when I realised that there was an option to tip electronically via the eftpos machine, which I accidentally hadn’t skipped.

And instead of entering my pin, I was entering the amount that I was opting to tip.

I know this makes me sound like a tightarse but tipping isn’t something I really do. We have a minimum hourly rate for hospitality workers in Australia so they don’t have to rely on tips to pay their bills like their peers in the US. Culturally, it’s just not Australia’s thing, nor is it mine.

I prefer to simply ignore the tip jar that is glaring at me in cafes, pretending the option to tip doesn’t exist.

But with this eftpos tipping option, you can’t ignore the problem. You have to actively decline tipping, rather than playing dumb. You have to say “no I don’t want to give you extra money even though you have to be polite to people you don’t like and stand up and smile all the time”.

So once you select the tipping option – knowingly or not – you can’t really back out of it. Asking the bloke behind the counter “hey mate, can you please fix this so I don’t have to reward you for your service?” would be a bit uncomfortable.

I was thinking this as I was at the pay station. I didn’t want to tip, but I couldn’t back out now.

I’d already entered the first two digits of my pin, which made up the cent value of this tip I’d supposedly elected to give. A third digit would have pushed my “optional tip” into the dollar range. A fourth digit would have put it into the tens of dollars. And yes, I’m aware of how poor the phrase “tens of dollars” makes me sound, but if the worn-out, dirty shoe fits, wear it… because you can’t afford new ones.

Unhappily, my pin starts with a number greater than five and didn’t really want to part with a pink (a non-existent slang term for a five dollar note I stole from Grease when they say they’re “racing for pinks”). I prefer to spend that kind of money on hummus. Or extra guac. Or extra strong teabags. Basically anything unnecessary that doesn’t involve helping out another person. I especially didn’t want to part with a precious pink considering the tip would have gone into the café’s bank account instead of a jar of cash that is divvied up fairly among staff at the end of the day.

But then tipping for less than a dollar isn’t a great option either. That’s not a tip, that’s an insult. That’s like making someone a toasted cheese sandwich and using it to wipe the sink before you give it to them.

It’s really worse than not tipping at all.

I really should have parted with my few bucks in order to keep face, look like a nice person and not cheese off someone who would be handling my food. Because no matter how important and untouchable you think you are, you have to trust the people dealing with the stuff you put into your body. I’m not saying that a good, honest hospitality worker would do a bush hanky into your breakfast, but you want to keep them on side. Those guys hold a lot of power.

So if I wanted to go back to that cafe, and I did, I didn’t want to return to a bunch of of people I’ve slighted. But in a moment of panic, I hit the enter button and my minuscule slap in the face tip went through.

So I had to leave. Immediately.

Now I can’t go back to this breakfast spot, because I would probably deserve someone shaking their dandruff into my porridge.

But at least I got something to write about.*

So that’s a win, right?

*In fact, I got two things. There was another thing about that breakfast that I was able to obsess over enough to fill out my column word limit. So an hour breakfast turned into two write ups. The first one will be in The Clifton Courier on Wednesday, if you’re keen.