Thursday, 23 February

I hate customer service in this country. I swear that the only people in all of England that have any idea how to provide customer service are people with foreign passports. My first experience with this was 5 years ago when I came here with my wife. Suzanne really wanted to go home saying that she had bought something from Harrods, which is like Saks only more. We arrived at Harrods late in the day after a whirlwind tour of London by black cab. As we walked up to the makeup counter, she was told that the store was closed and that she couldn't be helped. It was a simple matter of ringing a sale, but because it was after closing time, no glory. A year later, my dad managed to get Suzanne some spoons that were Harrods exclusives, so tha at least Suzanne had something from the store. Since then, it has become a norm that "I can't help you" is more common than I can help you. In fact, Little Britain does entire skits on it in their show. No matter what the person who is being "helped" asks for, the response is always "Computer says no". My trials and tribulations trying to get an account in this country are a great example (see previous posts). Speaking of banking, every time I go into my bank, I have to bring more than just my ATM card. Fine, so it means I have to plan visits, because I need my passport, whatever. But then I am drilled by a woman who has seen me every single time I walk in there and recognizes me on site. She appears to be trying to get me to slip up in the 20 questions she asks to see if she can tell me she doesn't want to help me. I have to tell her my address, (exactly as it appears on my statement, mind you) and my phone numbers and my last transaction, etc. Since the moron's at the bank typed in my phone number wrong to begin with, I have to give her an incorrect number in order to pass go, and collect any money. I know that she knows exactly who I am, she has a passport to verify, which is one of the most relied upon pieces of identification, and yet I am forced through the process every time.

I suppose that it is possible that I might not really be me. I could be a doppleganger from the planet Squilditch (really a beautiful place this time of year, if you get the chance, you should visit) that has come in contact with the real Don and stolen his entire genetic makeup as well as weight gain, hair style etc. I could then have stolen his passport and now that I have gone through all these monumental feats, I might just want to walk into the same bank branch he always did and pay his rent just to completely malign the universe. This small crack into "humanity" may allow my brethren to take over the world, one bank branch at a time, until we were able to shed our diguises and show our true selves. Which, coincidently, looks a lot like a petite dutch girl with pigtails and wooden shoes, but who cares once world domination has been accomplished? We shall triumph over all humankind! Long reign the Squilditchians!

However, the sense of community comes out when you get some foreigners trying to make it in this country. Take the news agent around the corner who, no matter the price of the wine, charges me 5GBP. Some of the bottles were more than 7GBP when I was going in there originally, but a smile every day finally wore the Middle Eastern guy down and he takes care of me. Starbucks is another example. When we got here, we went to Starbucks all the time because that was the only way to access the internet and look for jobs. Because we always made an appearance, the employees got to know us. Now, when we go in, the German behind the counter always hooks us up with a free add shot and has charged us for the tall price instead of a venti. Then there is Mr. Waffle, whom I swear is from a parralell universe and manages to always hook us up with free apple juice or the like when we order a heavenly waffle. In fact, as long as I bring my "woman" I am guaranteed to be taken care of. (Once, while ordering a waffle for Suzanne, he came up to me in a very Russian and even more serious voice and asked me "WHERE IS YOUR WOMAN". He only relaxed when I explained that she was upstairs and awaiting the waffly goodness I was about to bring her). But locals SUCK at customer service. I know that my loyal readers already know this by previous posts (all both of you) but it is true. The English don't have any idea how to treat paying customers. Sorry, rant over.