Tip for the binman?

So we’re getting to then end of our first evening in New York. The tour guide on the ‘night lights tour’ bus we had been travelling on suddenly piped up and said: "Of course, myself and the driver work in the service industry and your generosity is part of our income."

Hmmm, what did he possibly mean? Well, you’d be pretty damn thick not to have twigged he was on about a tip. For doing his job. Quite well, admittedly, but not in a spectacular fashion.

And as we climbed down off the coach, there was bucket positioned there. He and the driver were stood next to it. To not tip would make me look tight, but surely to tip was to effectively give in to the etiquette bullies? I chose the latter – partly because I was tired and partly because hey, I was in New York and all I handed over was a $1 note.

Anyone who goes to New York – or indeed to America – and has read a guide book before they go knows to expect to tip for everything. Whereas here, we tip as a reward for good service – or don’t tip to prove a point about poor service – in America the guidebooks even tell you the expected percentage of bill that should be added on just for being served.

Thankfully, for much of the time I was in New York – three nights, four days – we tipped because we wanted to. But it’s certainly a lot more brash than before. I last went in 2001. The tour guide didn’t ask for tips – or indeed tell a story which just stopped short of pointing out his kids needed new shoes – and the waitresses didn’t draw smiley faces on the back of receipts next to the bit marked: TIP.

Maybe it’s because I have recently been in New York that I’ve noticed the prevalence of the tip boxes here. When I was doing a paperround (I started at the bottom in journalism!) in 1993, the newsagent used to expect us to send cards out with the papers, but only ones bought from him at 2p each. There was no expectation that you’d get a tip, but those who did perhaps get an unwritten guarantee that more care would be taken putting their Sunday Times through the door.

But I’m sure the Chinese takeaway near me has only just joined the tipping brigade . I perhaps go there four times a year – and given how sick I feel today, I doubt I’ll be back for a while – but the young girl on the counter actually tapped the tip box as she gave me my change.

Unsubtle, maybe, but not quite as bad as the binman. He knocked on the front door on Tuesday – hours after I landed from New York – to hand me a green bin bag. And seeing as he was handing it over, he said he’d kill two birds with one stone and get the Christmas tip at the same time.

I’m sorry? A tip for the binman? Surely not even the cash-happy Yanks wouldn’t hand over money to men who make as much noise as possible 51 weeks of the year, don’t do bank holidays, never put the wheelie bin back and never secure the recycling bags so you end up spending half an evening hunting them down within the confines of your local postcode?

I didn’t give him a tip. Don’t tut. Don’t tell me I’ll never get any favours from them in the future. Because I wasn’t anyway – and do you know what, I’m glad I didn’t. Unlike America, the binman can’t claim to having to make his income up on tips, can they? And if he won’t help me recycle, I can hardly be hit by the council for not doing so, can I?