Slightly Askew

The alarm was sounding. I stood there like a lemon with a guilty look on my face.

I’d go down for this. I’d lose my job, my house, my girlfriend, the lot.

All for a bottle of Pimms.

Have you got your receipt, Sir?

Shit. What if wasn’t in my back pocket where, on auto-pilot, I’d probably put it? What if the dopey cashier hadn’t scanned it?

Thankfully it was, and she had.

She hadn’t taken the security tag off though. That was why I was currently looking like a criminal.

And as the customer services assistant walked past me and muttered “I’ll tell her off for not taking that tag off”, it was left for the security guard to apologise.

In customer service, you deal with the problem first, then you assess the cause. And never forget to say sorry if you’re at fault.

If I was the guilty party, would an apology from my dad have been sufficient? I doubt it.

Two of my best friends - Danny and Katie - are hairdressers.  Brilliant hairdressers, in fact.

This means two things:

1. Looking this good costs less.
2. I don’t go into salons much.

I went to Katie’s salon today though.  It’s spanking new and pretty swish.  So swish in fact, I could’ve had a glass of cold Budweiser while my barnet was being chopped.

I questioned Katie about how they get around licensing laws.  Turns out that you don’t buy the drink; you rent the glass.  The drink is effectively free.

They don’t make a profit on it either; it’s done for the benefit of the customers.

Which is pretty cool I think.

It demonstrates that not every element of your business should make a profit.  Some elements that only break-even are worth talking about.

So what about if you made a loss?  What if those drinks were absolutely free?  What if I was brought a cold Budweiser without even asking for one?

Cold Budweiser, sir?

Yes please.  I’ll happily drink it, relax during my haircut, and then tell all my mates about your salon.  Never underestimate how much blokes talk about the time I got a free beer.

I know of companies that give away £10 vouchers if you refer your friends to them.  Why not spend £10 giving a service worth talking about?

Me and the lady were being good citizens on Saturday: paying-in some money for a friend at a high street building society who are, apparently, proud to be different.

In walked a young couple.  They went to one of those ask-a-question queues (we were in the cashier queue, there was a queue for the machines, and a queue of people wondering what queue to join).  The male-half of the couple spoke.

I’d like to change my address please.

I really wanted to make an amusing comment about needing an estate agent instead of a building society, but my seldom-seen restraint kicked-in.  The customer services representative (or whatever his job title was) responded.

Okay sir, I’m going to need you to fill in one of these forms.

As if people don’t have enough bloody forms to fill in when they’re moving house, I thought, restraint still intact.

Well, how long’s it gonna take?  Cos I’m trying to buy something over the internet and I can’t cos my address don’t match the one on the card.

Surely it would be instant, wouldn’t it?  All they have to do is change a record on a database.

We have to post it to central records, sir.  It will take a few days….

…but since I’m in a good mood, and it’s an exceptionable circumstance, I’ll do it for you today.

What?

You’re in a good mood?  What’s that got to do with some bloody customer service?  Just change the fucking address!  And if you can do it instantly for them, you can do it instantly for every other person that needs to change their address.  I can’t imagine they get more than five requests a day.

If there’s a logical shortcut that improves the standard of customer service, make that shortcut the standard.

Surely?

There’s something wonderful about the idea of getting milk delivered in the morning.

Maybe it’s that whistling milkman, piping an unforgettable melody from this week’s hit parade into the crisp morning air.  Perhaps it’s his cute little milk float, buzzing around with minimal noise and bother, gently clinking as he stops at another home.  Or probably that cold bottle of seemingly unbranded milk that awaits you and your Corn Flakes; helping you to start your day the Kellogg’s way.

Why doesn’t everyone use this wonderful traditional service?  Surely glass bottles reduce wastage and carbon footprint - allowing us normal folk to pass for tree-huggers once in a while?

The reality is that, at half-past eight this morning, my milk hadn’t arrived.

So do I go to work and come home to a bottle of milk that’s been out in the sun all day?

No.  I cancel my orders and go buy it in a plastic tub from Sainsbury’s.  In a plastic bag.  In my car.

So, you can have the all the glorious tradition and imagery you want - after all, marketing is about telling stories.  But, if you can’t get the basics right, like delivering my milk before I go to work, you lose.

And you always will.

Threepiecemealwithfriesthankyouverymuchenjoyyourmealbye.

Good old KFC prove that it’s certainly not what you say, but the way that you say it.

It was great, thanks.

We got back yesterday, and popped into Sainsbury’s today to pick up a few bits of food.  We’re off to a wedding tomorrow, so when we noticed a Pizza Express voucher, we thought it would make a nice gift - y’know, a meal on us, so to speak.

Presenting our gift voucher to the gormless-looking lady at the checkout, we were greeted with an unsurprisingly gormless facial expression followed by a panic-stricken look around for help.  It came in the form of a boy who was probably just about to start puberty.  As he unhurried over, Tweedle-Dee at the checkout asked:

Do we even sell these?

No, of course you fucking don’t, love.  I just want to pay twenty quid for something that I’ve brought into the shop myself.  There’s a credit crunch on (so we’re told every day) and I thought that J. Sainsbury PLC could do with a booster.

Welcome home.

Please note: this rant isn’t about people who work in Sainsbury’s or any other supermarket - just that silly woman.  My mother works in Sainsbury’s, you see.