A man of letters..
.. that’s me. Not Chiltern Railways; a company to whom the words “Customer Service” are just a bunch of letters waiting to be outsourced to India. You can’t ring them and speak to a real person. That’d be too easy and they’d probably need counselling if every I got through. You can FAX them (high tech solution that), try an e-mail or when both of those fail, bring forth the mighty power of the electronic pen.
They never respond but in the same way that shouting at my kids “Tidy up your bedroom and let next doors three year old out of the cellar RIGHT NOW” doesn’t actually achieve anything, I, at least, feel better.
We have an unwritten (obviously) agreement. I write them letters and they ignore them. It’s a lose-lose situation that in this world of nobody’s responsible for anything, which seems to have insidiously spread to ever more far reaching corners of customer interaction.
Bugger, I’m turning into my dad. Next thing it’ll be halcyon days viewed through the untreated myopia of rose tinted glasses, lamenting the youth of today and the lack of respect they offer to their elders. Oh no, it appears it’s already too late.
It’s all this rain you see. I’ve twice rearranged my collection of uncomprehendable pension statements and broken the sander already. Short of cracking open the Chardonnay at 2pm on a drizzly Sunday afternoon or unleashing yet more DIY destruction on an innocent door, this is all that remains