Hello, My name is Lexy Ellis and I am a moaning bitch.
Yada… yada… yada… There is no time for this.
I am about to burst in to flames.
Moan sodding 1.
I can’t stand bad service, incompetent, untrained staff and company’s who refuse to accept liability for their shabby workmanship and who go out of their way to shove the blame, on anybody else but themselves. Namely, the customer.
I say companies, plural, as today I had a run in with Specsavers and last week I had a run in with Salford City Council. Whether they are a company or not, I don’t know but either way, shit service gets right under my wick. (On my wick? Over my wick? Either way im wikked ok?!)
I used to work for Disney World in Florida and in my opinion; all companies should follow their lead.
This is a company whose ethos is to treat every ‘guest’ like an old friend they haven’t seen in years.
Too cheesy for you? Well I like it. I want to be treated like an old friend you haven’t seen in years (although maybe not by my gynaecologist) and especially if I am paying good money for a service.
Specsavers is about to receive the mother of all complaint letters after my dealings with them over the last year.
Their systems didn’t ‘show’ I had paid cash, so even though I told them I did, I couldn’t have! (Are you calling me a liar?) The woman had sent my lenses back to the ‘depot’ after i ‘hadn’t contacted them’ (I have spoken to them 3 times in the last month) and last year (I should have moved to another company right there and then) a week after Addy was born I was summoned in for a contact lens check (after my asking/begging to postpone due to arse stitches and new born having been denied ‘no check, no lenses’) to be told on arrival, my appointment had been cancelled, and in fact, I didn’t ‘exist’, as I ‘wasn’t on the system.’
I exist. And I am about to exist all over your complaints department after overhearing the branch manager call me annoying to a colleague. (I exist, and I also have ears!)
‘Salford city council cannot answer your call right now as too many people are in arrears with their payments, so the lines are too busy, please call back.’ – this from an automated system. So it is my fault you don’t have enough staff? I am being blamed for others not paying, by a robot.
A message to all companies…
Don’t blame the system.
Don’t use jargon to try and confuse me.
Don’t stick me on hold and then cut me off.
Don’t pass me to somebody else without explaining why I am on the phone.
Don’t treat me like an idiot.
Happy staff = Happy customers.
Don’t forget I have a voice, and if you treat me badly, I intend to use it.
Moan sodding 2.
You may own a big fancy car, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to indicate!!!!
I am this close to chasing you down and ripping out your liver.
A tad harsh?
My baby is in the car, you nearly ran us off the road and you are giving me the finger for beeping while you chat on your mobile phone/chat to your granny in the back/scratch your arse!?!?!
Watch your back, fancy car driver. This Polo contains a mad woman. (A mad woman who drives carefully.)
Moan sodding 3.
I am not a restaurant. Do I look like a restaurant? Let me assure you I am not.
So then why, WHY do all of Mother Nature’s creatures seem to assume I am gourmet?
I am not tasty, let me assure you.
I am not a restaurant and I am not a piece of poo. (Before anyone mentions flies around shit.)
I do, however look like a total lunatic as I am swatting away 17 midges’, a bee and a ladybird while trying to go about my daily duties.
I am under attack and my scratching is keeping the household awake.
While I have been typing this I have been attacked by 3 bomber Mozzie’s hurtling towards my eyes.
What in god’s name is that all about? Did their parents teach them nothing?!?! There is no meat on my face! Go for my arse! At least help me out a bit!
Moan sodding 4.
I hate summer.
I have nothing to wear.
I either look like I tried too hard (which would be fine if that didn’t mean it were true) or I end up leaving the house looking like a full on chav (which I blatantly am… not!) with my red thighs bursting out of tight denim (circa 1980) cycling shorts and my socks accidentally pulled up over my ankles and my belly hanging free from my baby-doll top.
There is no happy medium.
I am either a walking masterpiece (which takes 5 hours to achieve and lasts all of five minutes, before I get chocolate smeared round my boobs – and not in a kinky way) or a walking tragedy. (and not in an S-Club 7 way.)
Gok wan, help me out here ok? Just don’t bring that bloody 4D mirror.
The last thing I want to see as I am settling in front of the telly with a bag of mini eggs is my arse gleaming back at me…What’s that? Sky plus FAILED my Grey’s anatomy?