Call Waiting

Call waiting. Yes, you know, that period when you are waiting to speak with someone after you get through the AI barrier that takes you around in circles back to your original question, and then finally you reach a human who doesn't know what the f**k the answer is so they say, "I'm just going to put you on hold while I speak with my manager." 

So, I'm wondering why aren’t people just straight? You know, just tell it like it is. There are options that would at least make you feel like you're important. How about...

1. “Okay, If you’d like to hold, I’ll just check that for you, sir. In the meantime, I’m going to play some really shit music that you didn’t request, probably don’t want to hear and at a volume that really should require you to wear ear defenders. I should warn you this is some crap electronic music from the eighties 'cos everybody seems to be into eighties music for some reason, but if you're not then ... tough. Roll with it.”

2. "Your call is not that important to us, even though we say it is. In fact parting you from your money is way more important. Oh, and our time is much more valuable than yours, so we'll just keep you waiting for as long as it suits us. Plus it gives me time to finish texting my friends about where we're going tonight."

3. "I'm just going to put you on hold while I speak with my manager because I don't have a clue what you're talking about. Yeah, I know I work here and, okay, maybe I should know something about our products, but, to be honest, I couldn't give a toss about the shit we sell so I've never bothered learning about it. And 'cos I work for a shit company, I've not been trained in customer service neither. So if you just hold on I'll come back with some bullshit that suits us but not you. Okay?" 

As soon as you hear the hold music, kill the frigging call!

Upselling

I went into a petrol station shop the other day to buy a sandwich and some water as I’d had no lunch. I approached the till counter with my choices, a BLT and a bottle of sparkling water.
The cashier gentleman behind the counter looked at my purchases and said, “No fuel.”
I wondered what that had to do with me as I am not responsible for ordering the company’s fuel stock, but then I realised he was actually asking if I had bought any fuel for my vehicle.
“No,” I said, “just these.”
He then scanned the items and said, “That’s five pounds twenty-four.”
I pulled out my debit card to pay but then he said, “If you get a meal deal it’s cheaper.”
“Okay. What’s a meal deal?” I asked.
“You can add a bag of crisps or a bar of chocolate.”
“I don’t eat crisps,” I replied. “But, uh … the chocolate … what, any chocolate at all?”
The cashier extended a finger indicating a nearby selection of chocolate products. “Just from them two rows,” he said.
Fair enough, I thought. Sounds like a bargain. I scanned the rows and picked out a Mars Bar which I placed on the counter next to the sandwich and the bottle of water.”
The cashier scanned it and said, “That’s five pounds forty-nine.”
I looked at him. “Sorry?”
“Five pounds forty-nine,” he said again, only a little louder as if I was hard of hearing.
“Sorry, I meant that’s twenty-five pence more. You said the meal deal was cheaper.”
“It is,” he said.
“No, it’s not cheaper. It’s twenty-five pence more expensive.”
“It’s a better deal. You get a Mars Bar with this deal,” the cashier said, as if I was stupid."
“This deal? But we weren’t doing a deal in the first place. I came in to buy a sandwich and bottle of water. I didn’t look for, nor ask for, a Mars Bar. So the purchases I actually wanted were less expensive than what they now are with a Mars Bar. So, therefore your meal deal is not flipping cheaper at all. Definitely not cheaper than the two items I was going to pay for originally.”
“But the meal deal is better,” the cashier said.
“Better than what?” I queried, but without waiting for a response continued, “It’s not better for me because I wasn’t looking to buy a Mars Bar in the first place. Granted it might be better labelled a ‘Meal Deal’ than if I bought all three items individually, but I wasn’t doing that so it ain’t cheaper. And anyway you never said, the meal deal was better. You said 'cheaper' which, because it costs me more money, like five pounds forty-nine pence instead of five pounds and twenty-five pence, it is clearly not the case. That's simple maths. You with me?”
A queue was forming. The cashier looked past me and then focussed on my purchases. “So you don’t want the Mars Bar?” he said.
I watched as he moved it to one side. I hesitated and then said, “Yes. I do.” I was invested in it now. I like chocolate. It wasn’t about the cost - it was only twenty-five pence. “I’ll take it. But it isn’t cheaper.”
The cashier shrugged and scanned the additional item. “You wanna receipt?”
No! I don’t want a bloody receipt was my immediate thought, but I just said, “No, thank you.”

SOLD! 

Used Cars

I was looking at the moon last night. It was a clear night in sunny Gloucestershire (although the sun was not out at the same time) and I got to thinking, you know, about life out there in space. We’re always thinking, are we alone or is there life out there, perhaps in some distant galaxy zillions of light years away. Well maybe we should be looking closer to home… to the places we've already been and where we've left our mark. It won't have gone unnoticed if there is life out there!

“What d’you reckon, Zhertan?”
“About what? That car over there?”
“No, dork. They coming back?”
“Who?"

"You know, them jumpy things with the big bubble heads what left the car?”
“Oh, right, yeah. Uh, I dunno. It’s been over fifty of their planet years and nobody’s been back since. I mean, if they were gonna come you might have thought it'd be to get their motor back?”
“You’re not wrong. I mean they kept coming for four years, then nothing. You'da thought they’d be back for the car at least. And maybe them golf balls what one of them was hitting?”

"Don't be stoopid. Nobody's comin' all the way back to the moon looking for friggin' golf balls. I mean, you ever played golf and hit a ball out there?"

"Can't say I have. I ain't got no clubs, for starters. I wouldn't even know where to get 'em."

"Alright, alright. That ain't the point is it? What I mean is, you hit them little golf balls out here on the moon, what with the gravity thing, they're gonna go bleedin' miles. On top of that, all the surface here is nearly the same colour as yer golf balls so you ain't never gonna find 'em. No, they ain't comin' back to look for golf balls, trust me. But the car, well, maybe. That makes more sense. Might be worth a bit still."

“Dunno 'bout that. Some of the lads tried to get it going last week but no luck. They got jump leads but nothing to give it a jump!”
“Must be some way we can get it started. It’s ours now, ain’t it?”
“Dead right it is. And look at it this way, whether it starts or not, it’s a classic motor now. So, yeah, maybe you're right, it could be worth a bit. We get it going we could sell it, make a few bob on it.”
“Sell it? Who to? Nobody here’s gonna buy it. But we get it working it’d be a nice little run around for a while. Maybe do some trips, a little taxi business or something. Lunar Uber.”
“Lunar Uber? Ain’t she a singer?”
“Nah, you’re getting confused, mate. That’s Luna Abba.”
“Oh yeah. But I like your idea. Maybe shoot down the beach at the Sea of Tranquility now and then.”

“Yeah. And I fancy a little trip to the dark side, too, catch a few rays. Never been there.”
“Blinding. Tell you what, Zhertan, mate, why don’t we try contacting that Apollo lot see if they can send us some spare parts and maybe a manual?”
“I like it. Got a contact?”
“Yeah. Bloke called Houston, I think.”

Fun in the Sun!

I guess when it comes to holidays people take a variety of views. Understandable. We don't all think in the same way. Personally, I don't get the default holiday that a lot of people choose - the beach holiday.

What's the point of the beach holiday where people lie in the sun all day exposing their skin to electromagnetic, ultra violet energy in an attempt to turn it a colour that it cannot possibly sustain (well, certainly not sustainable f you possess northern hemisphere genes) for more than a week; a holiday where you lie down all day long telling yourself that you are relaxing when in fact you are actually just about tolerating the effort it takes to keep smothering your body in oily chemicals and removing sand from places it shouldn't be (there are hospital patients who have to lie down all day and would give their eye teeth to be mobile); a holiday where you put on weight, following a sustained effort pre trip to actually lose it, so that you will look good on the beach in swim wear – look good, that is, whilst resembling someone who has just been rescued from an oil slick; a holiday where you don't really sleep at night because, having been singed severely by our nearest star, you feel the need to go out until the early hours with as few clothes on (usually in white) as you can get away with without breaking public decency laws, so you can show off just how tanned (burnt) you are to everyone else who is doing precisely the same thing - wouldn't it be a bit different to go out looking paler than Miss Havisham, thus confounding everyone's great expectations? At least you'd stand out as different; a holiday where you are surrounded by people you wouldn't otherwise give the time of day to (e.g. blokes with tattoos dressed like toddlers) but find yourself joining them, clapping yet another stupid fire-eating act. 

Anyway, it's a view (that's the equivalent of 'just saying', a popular social media phrase).

What's the alternative?

Go skiing! You'll be fast asleep at 9:45pm, and wake up the same colour as when you went to bed – that's proper relaxing! 😏

Oh, and you won't need to spend a small fortune on skin products post trip in a desperate attempt to hang on to that tan that actually starts to fade the moment you exit customs. 

Partner in Crime

It said she was seeking a ‘partner in crime.’ Better than the usual ‘soul mate’ tag, I thought, or ‘sole mate’ as the illiterate and those who live by the sea tend to put.

So I showed up on the date. You never know what to expect, and when I’d asked if she had anything in mind for the evening, she’d simply said, “Perhaps I’ll surprise you.”
I wasn’t quite prepared for the actual surprise. I’d just delivered two glasses of the finest Chianti Classico Il Grigio Gran Selezione 2010 to the wine bar table and had barely had a sip, when she pulled out a mask, a black and white striped t-shirt and a bag with the letters ‘SWAG’ emblazoned across it.
“Put these on,” she said, pushing the mask and shirt across the table.
I stared at the items and, lost for words, I took a swig of my wine (I note now, some while after this episode, that experts say one should never ‘swig’ a Chianti Classico Il Grigio Gran Selezione 2010, but, rather, should sip it gently in order to appreciate its aromatic deep cherry, liquorice tones, hints of leather and spice, and thus savour its rich, sweet fruit, vibrant acidity, and long finish.)
Fortified by my ‘swig’ I tried to hide my surprise. “You’re taking this ‘partner in crime’ thing a bit far,” I said. “What we robbing?”
“Robbing?” she queried, her right eyebrow arched as if she had deliberately chosen to add additional emphasis to her question. “I’ve been invited to a fancy dress bash this evening. I thought you might like to accompany me.”

I necked the remainder of the Chianti Classico Il Grigio Gran Selezione 2010. Who cares what the critics think?! 🍷

Paranoia

I stayed in a hotel recently, just a weekend break. I'd been looking forward to it; an escape from the everyday routine. So the first night involved a bit of social indulgence at the bar.

The next morning I came down from my room, heading for breakfast. A staff member approached me as I walked into the dining area.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you going to breakfast?” she asked.
I stopped and said, “Yes.”
She looked at me. “I need to tick you off.”
Slightly perturbed, I said, “Tick me off?” 
“Yes,” she said.
I mentally scanned the number of Jack Daniels I’d had the night before. “Uh, what have I done?”
“Done? Sorry?” she said.
“Uh, yes. The … err, ticking off thing.” I checked around me. There was a queue forming.
She raised an eyebrow. “Your room, I –”
“My room? It’s fine.” I did a quick mental flit through the room I had just left. Okay, I’d left a towel on the bed, but it seemed fine to me. The room wasn’t trashed. I might want to live like a rock star but I don’t behave like one! I shot a quick glance at the queue to see if I recognised anyone from the previous night, leaned in and whispered, “Yup, it’s all good.”
The staff member raised the other eyebrow. Now they were both parallel. “Good to hear, glad you enjoyed it, sir. Anyway, I just need your room number so I can tick it off to say you’ve attended breakfast.”

Food Hygiene

You know that food hygiene classification that restaurants and bars stick on their doors … the one that rates them between one and five, with five being super duper, you could eat off the frigging floor, and one being ‘even rats won’t dine here.’ Yeah, so, what’s the point of sticking it on your restaurant door unless you get a 5?

You get a 1 rating, game over, it’s bottom of the league by a long shot (see aforementioned rat view). So, you ain’t sticking that on your door. What about a 2? Well, that ain’t happening either ‘cos it suggests that if Sam and Ella booked a table they’d be right at home. Okay, then there's a 3 - hmmm, three is tooo middle of the road, it’s neither Arthur nor Martha (with apologies to the ‘offended’ who might read stuff into that expression that ain’t there). You get a 3, you kind of feel that you could stick the rating label on your door, probably ‘cos your clientele are usually the type that, having downed fourteen pints of 'Stella Act a Twat', show up at 3:00am in the morning after failing to pull in a shit club, and will never complain ‘cos at that time of the morning, they know they have consumed enough alcohol to neutralise viruses, bugs, germs and maybe even Sam and Ella! But, the thing is, YOU know a 3 is not going to get you the clientele your aspirations wanted when you decided to take the pain of the catering trade and opened your food establishment. 

Now we’re on 4s. What do you do? 4 … it ain’t bad but some knobhead is gonna ask why you ain’t a 5. Trust me. They will. You know you gotta step up but you look at your staff and you know they are never gonna get you to a 5. They're going through the motions, clock watchers, corner cutters, don’t see the detail that those who know about ‘surprise and delight’ just get!

So, where does that leave you? Yeah, you know it, only one conclusion - it’s all about about a 5, as a basic. Nothing else matters. Therefore, the whole ‘stick it on your door’ to show your achievements is pointless. If you don’t have a 5 you might as well shut your doors … or open a late night, drunks' takeaway.