The customer is always trite

I have, in the past, been known to write posts based around two of my favourite topics: technology and customer service. Today I was offered the best of both worlds, and so I can combine my two passions into one post.

I was in the office attempting to print when the printer made one of those noises that you recognise as being the precursor to bad news. Not a mechanical fail noise, but one of the inbuilt notification noises that announces, with a kind of cheery disposition, that something is not right. Further investigation revealed that the printer was out of ink, and specifically black ink. I had not heard any form of warning noise to suggest that ink levels were of concern, and so the sudden cessation of printing rights was something of a shock.

The printer refused to print any documents until such time as a new printer had been installed. Having removed the offending cartridge, the printer told me, via the tiny screen of news, that I should switch off the printer until the cartridge was replaced, in order to prevent any damage to the machine. I did as instructed, and hit the off switch, only for another notification to reveal that I should, under no circumstances switch off the printer without a cartridge in case of damage to the machine. This seemed something of a catch 22 to me, but in the end I had to reinstall the empty cartridge to combat the problem. The printer, of course, took great delight in beeping again to notify me that the cartridge was empty and that it needed replacing before it would resume normal printing duties.

Without a spare cartridge in the office, I made my way later in the day to PC World (presumably one of the less successful theme park names in existence) where I found rows upon rows of printer cartridges laid out for me to select from. Having foreseen this exact circumstance, I was able to produce the number and type of cartridge for the store assistant, and locate the replacement instantly. By sheer good fortune, the cartridge I wanted was available on a buy one get one half price deal.

Arriving at the till to claim my discount, I was asked whether this was a business expense, and whether I would be requiring a VAT receipt. I said it was, and that I was.  For some reason, this necessitated a move away from the main checkout to a desk with a computer and a chair. I have no idea why, but I had to register various work details with the receipt man before he could print a VAT receipt for me. This has never occurred to me when attempting to procure a receipt previously, and the process took far longer than was necessary, with him having to type and retype my name, scan the print cartridge multiple times, and wait for the printer to kick into action. How ironic it would have been if his printer had, at that very moment, run out of ink.

After an eternity had passed, receipt man was finally able to give me the receipt, which consisted of at least two pieces of printed A4 paper confirming my details, and several till receipts. To contain all paperwork in one place, receipt man searched, in vain, for a stapler at the desk with the computer. Realising that there was not one present, he made his way to the main checkout, where he did indeed locate a stapler. Receipt man then took at least four attempts to staple the paperwork together, as someone had vandalised the stapler so that it produced a chewed hole in the paper with sharp staple ends sticking out. 

Finally my stapled paperwork was complete and I was free to go, but in one final desperate act of inefficiency I set off the alarm when leaving the store, because receipt man had failed to notice the protection tag on the packaging. I think at this point he sensed my utter loathing for everything that he stood for, as he waved me through without even bothering to check if I had stashed another 16 cartridges in my pockets. Had I done so it would have been the world's longest and most painful shoplifting experience ever.   

Having your cake and eating it...

So last week was my sister's birthday. On the big day, I managed to remember to call to wish her a great many happy returns (I won't say how many), and asked how the day had been. Aside from the joys of work, she had had decided to pop into a cake shop in order to procure sweet treats to take to work. On entering said delicatessen, she was amused to hear Stevie Wonder's 'Happy Birthday' playing in the store, but was even more amazed when the shop assistant randomly asked her if it was her birthday. Having replied in the affirmative, a momentary game of 'no way', 'yes way' ensued until the shop assistant called over a colleague to verify this astounding coincidence - having never once asked a customer that question before, she refused to believe that it could possible be true. My sister was duly able to provide evidence in the form of a driver's license, whereupon the three of them danced around the store to Stevie Wonder. Finally, at the end of the song, they gave her free cake.

What a truly bizarre and wonderful coming together of circumstance.

Cold Calling

So a strange thing just happened. At 6pm on a Friday evening I get a call from an unknown number in Nottingham. Fearing an automated PPI recording, I gingerly pick up the phone to reveal an actual person, apparently calling from EON energy. She's made a good start by choosing my energy supplier, which means there's a chance she's genuine. She says she's calling to discuss my account, and asks whether she can check a couple of security questions. I have no idea why my account needs discussing, and am reluctant to answer security questions that might pass on personal details. I feel like asking her whether I can ask a few security questions, but I run with it. Having successfully proved I am who I am and where I live, she tells me that she's been reviewing my account and I am several hundred pounds in credit. She needs an up to date meter reading to prove this, and I oblige, and after several seconds of tapping on a keyboard she confirms that I am still several hundred pounds in credit. She asks whether I would like a refund of several hundred pounds and a reduction in my monthly payment. I say yes, and after several seconds of tapping on a keyboard she confirms that the refund will arrive with me in a week and that my monthly payment will be reduced by £90. This seems too good to be true.

Part of me is still wondering if I've just been robbed. Or whether somehow during this conversation she has gained important knowledge that will lead to a fraudulent attack on my account. I guess I'll know when the several hundred pound refund turns up or not.

Another part of me is wondering why I was paying such an amount to begin with if, after just a few months of living here, I have somehow accrued such a sizeable credit. How do they work it out?! Why was it so wrong? Did they assume I was a family of four? Or an elderly gentleman with a vulnerability to winter chills? Is the default setting an assumption of massive heat loss from the property?

Whatever the reason, it is potentially the best random phone call I have had in some time. I shall have to reduce my automatic cynicism in future. Unless of course I am robbed in the next week.

An Eye for an Eye

I've always been fortunate in having good eye sight. It helps when doing survey work. And because I use my eyes a lot for work purposes I can get an eye test on expenses every couple of years. A couple of years had passed recently, and as if to emphasise the point I was contacted by Boots Opticians offering me a half price eye test, so I booked myself in for a check up.

I arrived to be greeted by a lady with a forced smile that reeked of low job satisfaction. She ushered me straight in to a side room where she could perform a variety of facial tortures on me. I was asked a series of questions regarding my last check up, whether I had any problems since then, and what my general health was like currently. Presumably she was not happy with my answers as she then insisted that I place my chin on a device that looked like a head brace and strapped me in while manoeuvring a small light to within three millimetres of my left eye. Having informed me she was going to test my eye pressure, she fired a tiny burst of air into my eye that was similar to having a sparrow sneeze in my face from close range. Not content with the left eye, the right eye was then subjected to the same fate. Then I had to spot tiny flashes of light in my peripheral vision whilst shouting out numbers, like when you think you've spotted a shooting star out of the corner of your eye. After this she attached me to another machine, via the same chin strap head brace as before, that was apparently going to photograph my eye. This time instead of a gust of well-directed air there was a bright flash that left me temporarily blinded. She took advantage of my momentary incapacitation to attack my other eye, leaving me disorientated and stumbling for the exit. Hoping that the test was over, I was then asked to regain my composure and informed that the optician would be with me shortly.

Having just about recovered the optician then dragged me into another side room, this one dark and menacing. Various instruments of death lay scattered across the desk and walls. I was forced to wear a pair of specs that made me look like Harry Potter, while she fiddled with assorted accessories for the lenses. When asked to read the lowest line on the board I struggled through the letters and then tried to remember the same sequence for the other eye. Then the red circles were brighter than the green circles, then about the same, then the line was to the left of the dot, then to the right. Confusion reigned. Various lenses were added and removed from the specs, whilst the line of questioning became increasingly aggressive. Finally, fed up of my indecision, she reached for a tiny light and moved in for the kill, bringing her head right up towards mine before bobbing it like an owl in each direction and asking me to look into the corners of the room as if the answers would be found in the whites of my eyes. My (optic) nerve held firm and finally, in a fit of desperation, she asked me to read from a book whilst it moved slowly towards my face.

Having found no evidence to suggest that I needed glasses imminently, she wrote notes on her computer and dispatched me with the bill to the front desk, where the boots opticians synchronised swimming team were happy to pretend to be happy to help me. Half-price eye torture courtesy of the RSPB: see you again in two years!  

Dental Malpractice

It dawned on me lately that it's about time I refreshed my assorted appointments. The optician had written to me to remind me, and it has been nearly three years since I last saw my dentist. With a few days leave to use up in the next month or two, it seemed like a good thing to get out of the way.

I am fortunate in that I have not required frequent visits to the dentist as my teeth are in reasonable condition (cue disastrous next health check!). I am unfortunate in that my memory between one visit and the next is sufficiently poor to recall the name of the practice or who I saw. I can recall where my dental practice is located, which makes finding it slightly easier - on this occasion using google street view to remind me what it was called (I could even see their phone number on the sign!). 

So I called them. A generic sounding receptionist picked up the phone and said something generic at high speed that I was unable to comprehend. I could guess roughly what it was since she managed to inflect each word or statement in a perfectly generic way. It sounded like the usual 'Hello-XXX-Dental-Practice-thank-you-for-your-call-how-can-I-help-you-today?' response, but I wasn't 100% sure and had to confess that I hadn't understood a word of what she had just said. It turned out she had asked me if she could put me on hold because they were very busy, which was ironic since she her efforts to be more efficient with her time had backfired spectacularly by me asking her to repeat herself.

I was lulled into a sense of dental calm by the 'on hold' music, which featured the soothing tones of Zero 7 with a soft voice over telling me about various reasons to use their dental practice over others, which seemed to be preaching to the converted. Presumably very few dental practice 'on hold' recordings contain adverts for other dental practices. I like the idea of this. I would like to hear someone giving me a phone number for a different dental practice where the receptionists speak clearly and where I won't be put on hold (presumably in case I then get persuaded to call elsewhere, starting a never-ending cycle of calling dental practices).

When the generic receptionist returned, I confirmed that I was hoping to book an appointment, and she asked my name. I always spell out my surname since most people don't include the middle 'a'. Having done so, there was a long period of silence punctuated by tapping at a keyboard and periodic sighing, before she asked me to confirm the spelling again as she couldn't find me on the system. When that returned nothing, she asked whether I had been to the practice before. I had, and was able to tell her that my last appointment was nearly three years ago. She sounded grumpy and said she would have to check the old system. This brought up several questions in my mind:

1. How frequently do dental practices update their systems?
2. Does the old system not talk to the new system?
3. Does she assume that everyone requiring dental treatment will have been seen since the new system was put in place?

It turns out that none of this mattered, since I was also not locatable on the old system either. Having confirmed my date of birth, she was finally able to find a record of my last appointment. At this point I felt confident that things were moving forward. Alas, my confidence was short-lived. It turns out that I have lapsed from their books. I have no idea how or why this has occurred. I did not ask to lapse. I had no contact from them to forewarn me of my impending lapsing, or offering me the opportunity to remain unlapsed. Perhaps everyone lapses automatically if they don't have an appointment for nearly three years. That would appear to be discriminatory against people with teeth in reasonable condition.

In order to resolve this predicament, I would have to re-register, a process that necessitates a visit to the practice to pick up a registration form. Only then can I book an appointment. So now I have to go there twice, instead of once as planned. When I do go, I shall ask the generic receptionist what the optimum length of time is between visits to ensure that no further lapsing ensues. Let's hope the check up is more successful than arranging the check up.

Public Service Broadcast

The time has come for me to have a rant on one of my favourite rantable topics – customer service. I recently purchased an item online – a bean bag – for my new home. The website claimed it offered free delivery, so I duly entered my card details and parted with the requisite amount of money in return for the bag. During no part of these proceedings was any information given to inform me of the likely dispatch of my bean bag and what arrangements had been made for its delivery. For all I knew it would be a year before it arrived, whilst it was lovingly crafted from a billion individual beans. I had given the delivery address as my new house, but since I was not yet living there I would have to be present to receive the package.

A few days later I received a text message from a company called Yodel, informing me in an upbeat and excitable way that they would be delivering my bean bag that very day! Upbeat and excitable though I was to hear this news, I was also slightly put out as it was a day when I had already made plans, and would not be around to receive the bean bag upon arrival. Sure enough, I returned home to find the usual note saying they had called only to find that I was unexpectedly not at home. Though the card gave space for them to leave a contact number I could call to arrange a convenient time, no number was included. Nor were any other details about how I could locate my bean bag and arrange for its safe passage. Later on I received a second text message informing me again that they had tried to deliver my bean bag, and that it would automatically be delivered again the following day. This was excellent news, since the following day was a Sunday when I had planned to be home all day.

Sunday arrived and I waited eagerly for the bean bag to arrive. No time slot had been given, but the helpful card left the day before suggested that delivery could take place at any point between the hours of 07:30 and 21:00, a convenient 13.5 hour window during which I was expected to remain incarcerated in my own house. As the day wore on I began to feel deflated, then melancholy, then cynical and I finally checked their web site for further information. The web site informed me that they do not deliver on a Sunday. This seemed reasonable, except that I had been told by text that they would in fact do so. So I gave up.

On Monday I assumed that they would attempt the delivery again, but since I was at work all day there was little I could do about this. After work I found the same pointless and uninformative card left again with no further information. I went back onto the web site and rescheduled the delivery for Thursday, a day that I already had off work to take another delivery.

Thursday arrived and I yearned for my bean bag to arrive. The morning passed uneventfully, until the IKEA delivery came and went. By late afternoon my cynicism returned, and though they still had hours left to fulfil their promise of delivering before 9pm, I had to make a dash to get some food. Fearing that my absence would coincide perfectly with their arrival, I left a note saying that I was just minutes away and could they call me if they arrived. I returned 20 minutes later to find the note still in place, and then sat waiting for a further three hours, finally leaving at 9.30pm.

On the Friday morning I tried to trace my package on the Yodel website, only to be told that it had been delivered. This was news to me, since it certainly wasn’t at the delivery address. I decided the time had come to call the insane people at Yodel and find out more. The nice customer service lady apologised profusely and tried to locate my bean bag with no success. Since nobody seemed to know where it was, she said she would have to start an investigation, but that it might take days to trace the bean bag. I told her what I thought of that, and promptly returned to the website to tell them what I thought of it too. Having finally navigated to a page where I could leave a long-winded ranty complaint not dissimilar to this one, I hit send only to be told that my long-winded complaint was too long-winded for their comments box, which was limited to 1500 words. This was the final kick in the teeth of dissatisfaction. So I cut my complaint in half and submitted it twice, with a small ‘to be continued’ message at the end of the first one and an additional statement at the end of the second one about how unbelievably awful their complaints procedure was, similar to their outlook on customer service.

Having been told that the investigation could take days, I forgot about the bean bag delivery and carried on living my life. On the Sunday, I was popping into the house for five minutes to pick up recycling, only to be greeted by a Yodel delivery man complete with my bean bag. This was unexpected, since it was in fact a Sunday, the day of Yodel rest. It was also massively fortuitous since I was there for all of five minutes, and can only assume that a few minutes either side would have resulted in me missing the delivery yet again and going on a whopping rampage down the streets of ineptitude.

I have heard nothing back from Yodel. No confirmation that the parcel has been delivered, no apology, no pathetic attempt to quell my intense hatred for everything they stand for. Though I am delighted to have my bean bag safely ensconced in my new abode, there will always be a part of me that recalls the immense frustration of getting it here. Yodel took that from me. 

Travel Woes

Dear First Great Western,

I am currently stood in the vestibule end of carriage B, next to the toilet, on the 10:25 from Salisbury to Bristol. I couldn’t help noticing your polite customer services feedback sticker on the wall next to me, as my face has been squashed against it for the last eight minutes. On it you state that you would welcome comments on how my journey is going, so here it is.

I am stood here because your train is crammed full. Full of people, baggage, buggies, newspapers, iPads and headphones. Yes, it is a bank holiday, and we all love travelling on a bank holiday, but it seems odd that the first train of the day isn’t until 10:25, and only contains three coaches.

In the vestibule area with me are eight other people, three bikes (one collapsible), two suitcases, a dog and an axe. I have no idea why the lady in the black top is carrying an axe, but in our close proximity it makes me nervous. At least in the event of an accident we can use it to make our way to freedom. As a result, things are a tad cramped in here. There is very little air as the train doors are those ‘modern’ ones with no windows in, and there seems to be no air conditioning. That is particularly noticeable as the toilet is out of order, and some sort of dampness is creeping out from it onto the carpet, causing the two teenage girls stood there to move away into the busier section, and a moderately unpleasant smell to pervade the vestibule area.

I must say that, considering this situation, everyone seems in quite high spirits. It is a bank holiday after all, and the chap in the green jacket is chatting away to other passengers merrily enough, but I can’t help thinking everyone might have a slightly better journey if they could find a seat that they didn’t have to share in an area that didn’t smell of wee. I assume that is roughly what we paid for, though in fairness my ticket made no promises of urine-free seating arrangements.

The journey itself ran relatively to time, with the only major annoyance being that I was stood in the doorway that opened at every station. This necessitated me removing my bag from the floor and trying not to damage the elderly lady or rotund gentleman who were stood next to me, whilst I made space for those leaving the train to de-train, and those boarding to join us in the vestibule area. It was an unfortunate irony that, when the time came for me to get off, the platform was on the other side of the train for the first time, resulting in another battle through the crowd, over the bikes, to freedom.  

Finally, I applaud your braveness in locating the customer services sticker in the vestibule area. I suspect that a sticker located adjacent to a comfortable seat in the carriage is unlikely to generate much response, but one stuck at eye level in a cramped standing-room-only part of the train adjacent to a broken toilet is masterful.

Many thanks for listening to my feedback, and good luck with the rest of the bank holiday.

Yours sincerely,

Mildy perturbed commuter

Postage

When I was in New Zealand I purchased a few gifts and things to bring home that were likely to stretch the boundaries of my luggage allowance to carrying capacity. Since I was residing at the time with my good friends in Te Anau, they offered to stick it in the post for me as they had successfully sent parcels back to the UK previously. This seemed like a cracking solution, as I would not have to struggle under the extra weight for the next few days, nor would I glance anxiously down at the scales when my backpack was being weighed at the airport. So I boxed up a load of stuff, wrapped an entire roll of parcel tape around it and wrote up the necessary declaration label and stuck it on. I left it with my friends, who popped it in the post the following day. I then spent another week travelling and returned to the UK eagerly awaiting the arrival of my package.

Guestimates suggested that two weeks was a probable delivery time. After a fortnight had passed, I started to get a little nervous, and after four weeks I contact my friends to see whether there was any way to trace the parcel. After failing to locate the tracking number online, they called New Zealand Post to see if it was still in the system. Indeed it was! On its way back to New Zealand! Apparently it had beaten me home by a day or two, but I had never seen any hint of a ‘we missed you’ note that might have been deposited through my letter box in its place. Nor had I received either of the two letters apparently dispatched to alert me to its presence in a warehouse somewhere. So it had been returned to sender, back in New Zealand, presumably by a much slower route.

Some weeks later my friend informed me that it had landed on his doorstep and he could see no reason why it had been returned. So he checked the address and duly dispatched it again on our mutual hope that I had simply missed it when it beat me home. This time I would be ready! Several days elapsed and I checked the tracking number on the website only to be fobbed off with a message suggesting that the parcel was not being tracked. I waited another few days and nothing changed. Finally I heard the wonderful news from my friend that the parcel had, yet again, been returned to him in New Zealand.

So he contacted New Zealand Post to ask why the parcel is so desperate not to stay in the UK, and they had no idea. I have no idea how the financial arrangements of international mail work, but having now paid for the parcel to be delivered twice, and with it still remaining in New Zealand, I’m inclined to suspect this is relatively poor value for money. And since we knew not what the issue was or who was responsible for it, I had no idea who to contact to get it resolved, or to seek compensation financially, emotionally, or environmentally. This package is now responsible for a vast amount of carbon emissions as a direct result of incompetence within the mailing community! But it is a well-travelled parcel and I was very much looking forward to hearing tales of adventure and mystery when/if it finally arrived. 

Having made a complaint to New Zealand post, I was asked to confirm my address via email, which I duly did.  I followed this up after two weeks had elapsed to see whether any progress had been made, only to be told that the contents of the package had now been lost. This was news to me, since they were residing safely with my mate as far as I knew, and he was able to confirm this. I subsequently received a letter from NZ post, asking me to confirm my address again. I duly replied, whilst acknowledging the irony that this was the only letter I had received from them of all the things that had been sent! After several more weeks had elapsed I contacted NZ post again to see what progress had been made, only to be told that the results of their investigation had found that we had not included the postcode on the parcel! This was a kick in the teeth since I had written the original address, including postcode, and that was copied to the customs label that was also attached to the box. My friend had double checked it when it had been first returned to him, confirming that all details were correct. Now I was mad! Outright lies to cover their incompetence!

I wrote again to customer services in a less than enthusiastic tone, demanding to be taken seriously. A delightful chap called Jamie took on our case and assured us that he would personally investigate the matter. Not only that, but he kept us informed of progress each time there was a development – a resounding success for customer service at last! My friend took the executive decision to send the package recorded, which cost a bit more but might turn out to be excellent value for money since paying the lesser amount was clearly not enough! And indeed it worked. I have been reunited with the package, including all of its contents; a mere four months after it was initially dispatched on the other side of the world.