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Thursday 9 October 2014

England, That sceptred Isle.

Despair - utter despair!

I have just placed an order for a part for my other lathe, a very small one, so that I can at least make some small wood shavings as I wish.  The company is in South Norwood so I thought that the process would be simple.

Phone rings, please press whatever function number that you want.  OK, press button to listen to Richard Clayderman and what I presume might be a piano.  Difficult to tell really as the tape is so stretched and distorted as to render any identification of the music impossible.  A further audio addition was a sort of hissing and spitting which sounded like many rashers of bacon frying in the background.  (Note for older readers:  Annette Mills' Muffin the Mule or Sparky and His Magic Piano would have even been preferable.)

'Hello' said a voice more than reminiscent of Jim Davidson's mate Chalky. 

Having said that I wish to place an order I was told to wait because the computer was slow.  I complied and waited several minutes after which the same voice asked if it could help me.

Affirming that was so and that I wished to place an order the request to hold was again made as the the computer had apparently yet to to reach Warp Speed 3.  Patiently I waited again to be subjected to more aural distress from Mr Clayderman ...

'Hello, you want to make an  order?'

'Yes', the penny was dropping, 'Do you deliver to France?'

'Umm, dunno, have to find out.'  Re-enter Richard Bloody Clayderman ...

'Err, yeah.  What's the number that you want?' 

Thankfully I had the foresight to ascertain the part number of the desired item which I relayed slowly, confirming every pair of digits - slowly.

The voice eventually announced the correct description of the item before asking me to wait further due to reluctant computer.  Guess what?  Another two minutes or so of that wretched French ivory tinkler assaulted my ears.

The next step was an eventual triumph for the English phonetic alphabet as I laboriously spelled out my full postal address.  This mammoth intellectual task needed double checking after every single word which when completed was read back to me in what sounded like a mixture of pidgin English and a hitherto unknown tongue.

Now for the difficult bit the recitation of the sixteen digits embossed onto my bank card.  After each pair I was asked to repeat them again, then listened while they were reiterated in what I now thought might be South London patois with a sprinkling of Ethiopean slung in for good measure.  This was repeated again back to me without request and it sounded more or less correct from what I had managed to glean.

Now another hurdle to surmount - expiry date of my card which I stated to be October 2016.  That caused another hiatus as apparently the computer screen would not accept that date as it was too long.  Try again, this time using the magic numbers of 10 and 16.  To my utter amazement the next words were 'Oh, October, twenty sixteen', the very response that I had given initially.

The ultimate challenge was yet to come in the form of stating the name on the card, my own, my very own.  Having spoken it slowly a repeat performance was requested which was delivered letter by painful letter then a further repetition of it by the disembodied voice at the other end of the phone.

Are you sure that is your name?'

'What do you mean am I sure that it is my name' I asked in disbelief, after all I've only had it since 1944 so there may be room for doubt.

'It sounds like an English name'.  Well, that's a surprise...

'It is an English name' I replied, 'Why, is there a problem?'

'Well, you have a French address'.

'Yes, that's correct which is why I asked if your company delivered to France.'

'You do not have a French name?'

'No, I do not have a French name because I am English.  I am an Englishman who lives in France.'

'Oh.'

'How much will carriage be please?'  I was dreading the response to this question as my ears were still recovering from their earlier assault of the  keyboard cacophony.

'Wait, I will find out'.

Dear God, no, please no.  He was not listening and yet again that damned Gallic ivory basher resumed his assault on my ears.

'Umm, about five or  six pounds.'

I could not be bothered to challenge his sort of ball park figure for fear of further damage to my musical sensibilities as I thought that about right from previous items purchased of about that weight from the UK.

'Thank you' I responded wiltingly.

'Is that all?'

'Yes thank you.'

'OK, ciao'.'

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And that, dear reader, was my latest encounter with probably a product of the educational system.  Unhappily I fear that it may not be my last.