I live in fear of that peculiar sharp intake of breath I seem to hear whenever I ask service men actually to service anything I own that doesn’t work.
I live in fear of that peculiar sharp intake of breath I seem to hear whenever I ask service men actually to service anything I own that doesn’t work. It’s not a promising sound. Dishwashers that stop washing dishes, internet servers that fail to serve, waste disposals that spew sewage wrist-deep back up into the sink, cars that make curious grinding noises — all these are problems I want dealt with speedily and with total confidence. I also want the person in charge of mending them to have a far superior knowledge of the buggered piece of machinery than I do. That is their job; their specialist field. Not mine. I only want to be greeted with perky ‘seen-it-all-before’ optimism. I want service men that self-medicate themselves with happy pills. And when I telephone for help I never, ever want to be put on hold, transferred, or patronised and told ‘all our customers are important to us’ when patently we’re not. Or not nearly important enough. I want results. And when I don’t get the bend-over-backwards immediate service I’m after, I’m afraid I lose all sense of reason. I become the customer from hell.
My car recently flooded. For two days I just ignored the unpleasant squelch. I put the perpetual quarter-inch of water lapping at my feet down to a spilt bottle of Evian I’d left rolling around the floor and merrily put towels down to absorb the moisture. After four days of driving about in a swamp I got bored of asking my passengers to sit with their feet perched on the dashboard. I was also slightly disconcerted to discover the towels had begun to sprout a fine green pelt; the sort of health food Daylesford Organics flogs to hardcore vegans. It was as though my car had made an executive decision to become eco-friendly but forgot to first seek my consent.
I rang Vic at my garage and told him I appeared to have both rising damp and a crop of mung beans growing on the floor. He did that weird sucking-in of breath that I’ve come to fear and loathe.
‘Where’s it coming from?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, Vic. I’m asking you.’
‘Have you checked to see if your windscreen-washers are blocked?’
‘No,’ I replied testily. ‘Do you think that’s what’s causing it?’
I could hear Vic do a double breath of uncertainty and knew I was doomed.
‘Mrs Standing, your guess is as good as mine.’
I dumped the car with Vic and walked to work. I co-own a children’s toyshop in Pimlico and in the run-up to Easter we’re always exceptionally busy. Halfway through a credit-card transaction, my terminal flat-lined. Having no means of taking money in a shop throbbing with customers in the middle of a recession is an acute form of retail torture. I rang the helpline. ‘We can try and get someone out to you shortly.’ ‘How short is shortly?’ I interrupted. I heard that familiar, resigned sigh of non-service. ‘We’re probably looking at tomorrow. However you could have a go at rewiring it yourself and then possibly...’
‘No,’ I snapped. ‘ I don’t do technical self-help. Ever.’