I Want a Refund for the Weekend

I have been home for a bit, and I'm still cross. This has been the weekend of refunds. Not straight-forward, easy refunds. But difficult ones with stroppy customers. But I kept my smile on and my teeth gritted. You'd be so proud.

It was 9.30am on Saturday morning. I was on Perfumery as a mobile. I hadn't had my second coffee of the day yet. A very sick girl came through and asked for some help doing a refund. To be helpful, I go off to the new and very spanky Skinspa area, formerly known as Ladies Toiletries. Well, they say no good deed goes unpunished, and this was no different. By the time I had finished with the customer, it was 10.15, I missed my break and I'd been up and down 3 flights of stairs 3 times. There is a happy ending, we did the refund and the customer was happy(er) than she was when she came into the shop. The problem arose in that she paid with cash and vouchers and wanted to be refunded in cash, she lived 53 miles away, there was no manager on floor to talk me through and authorise the procedure, the cash office were being difficult and security became involved. As I said that was fine in the end.

Today, I could have cheerfully slapped the customer. It's actually one of those situations whereby the more I think about it, the more annoyed I get. She bought a set of bed linen and picked the wrong type of pillowcase. She wanted to do a straight swap. Not a problem. But she didn't bring her receipt. When I realised she didn't have her receipt, I explained that I'd just need to call someone to authorise the exchange, which I did. She went off on one. She spent a hell of a lot of money in the store and couldn't believe the fuss to do the exchange. I did say to her, very calmly and politely that the exchange could be done, but I just needed the authorisation. The guy from furniture came over and showed me how to do it on the system and then signed the necessary bits of paper. She left muttering at me under her breath. Cow.

Mind you, it's probably Karma. Tuesday evening I get a phone call from Stella Smith, calling on behalf of Orange. Now Stella Smith, with a broad, New Dehli accent then proceeded to tell about my contract with O2 and how much more competitive Orange were; she called me on my landline. I'm ex-directory and I don't have the time or patience to sign up for the telephone preference thingy, telemarketers call me at their own peril. It might be just their job, but quite frankly I'm ex-directory for a reason and I don't see why I should have to take yet another step to guard my privacy. Anyway, to cut my rant short I say goodbye and hang up. I go into the O2 shop and relay this conversation to the taken-aback staff.

The fact of the matter is, my contract is with O2. The details of which I expect to be kept between O2 and myself. I realise now how naive I've been. My credit and commercial transactions are not private, they are a commodity to be traded between companies and government organisations. If I want these to remain private, I'd have to live in a field somewhere with no bank account and no telecommunication. Which of course isn't possible. I like my plastic and the comfort of my planet eating ways, not to mention flushing toilets. I especially like flushing toilets. At the end of my rant, I was told my the glazed shop girl to take it up with Customer Services. Great. I wonder how much action I'd get at the end of that £1.50 a min conversation?