On the plus side of the equation, I should probably thank the man in question: in the times we’re in now, at least I’m saving money.
It’s November, the clocks are turned back, evening darkness is upon us, and yet here I am, nine weeks after an emergency call from Mr. Nameless, and still no spark of heat or a flicker of flame from my gas fireplace. As I gaze at it, hanging on the wall in all its interior design glory, but now in its cold and extinguished state, I realize that, much like the parrot in that Monty Python sketch, my poor fire is not at rest ; rather it is really and truly deceased.
Ever since Mr Nameless strolled into my apartment one September afternoon (more than an hour late for his appointment), diagnosed the problem within five minutes, and then drank tea and discussed anything and everything, not realizing I had guests who had just arrived he never once picked up the phone to update me on the situation in terms of whereabouts, availability or anything else related to the part required to fight the fire.
Oh I spoke to him well because I’m the one who made the calls. Every single one of them in the last two months.
I called him somewhat apologetically at first, but as the weeks turned into months and late summer turned to winter, I have to admit that I’ve become a little, well, more robust in my countless calls to him.
Every exchange was always exactly the same: waiting for so-and-so to do so-and-so, and so we were no closer to him when he showed up again at my apartment to do what I asked him to do: um to fix the fire. Still, I’d grit my teeth, hang up, and give him another week.
Until this week, that is. This week, as we say in the north, I lost the bap. Realizing that I was now at the end of my rope, I threw in the towel and simply told your husband to just “forget it”.
And you know what? Although I still sit and stare at a deceased fire, I am so relieved that I will never have to deal with it again. Or even listen to his excuses.
But I’m also frustrated and very disappointed. After all, there is nothing pleasant about dealing with someone who does not treat you with courtesy and respect. What on earth, I keep asking myself, has become of that increasingly rare commodity that used to be called customer service?
There are of course still people out there who take pride in their work and go the extra mile to help their clients, but – and this is a big but – there are so many who just don’t do it. You see it everywhere: in shops, in banks (if you can even find a person in them), in restaurants, in bars and also when phoning all sorts of institutions and service providers.
Remember the old adage “the customer is king”? Well, good luck with that. Nowadays the customer is often just a number.
