I hate dealing with sales people in big companies. Hate it. Hate it. HATE IT!
I’ve been navigating through a shitty little automated telephone system for the last ten minutes. Press 1 for business calls, press 2 for residential service, press 3 to have red hot needles shoved slowly into your eyeballs, press 4 to listen to really bad music until your ears bleed. Ten minutes of my life that I will never get back.
It’s a simple enough query: We have a home worker who we want to make sales calls for us. If they were a BT customer they could prefix their calls and the business would be billed for the calls. They are a Virgin customer though. All I want to know is if they offer this service.
I got connected to a very nice Indian gentleman who I think is called Glaplutttteaaa. He may be Klingon rather than Indian, it’s hard to tell given the quality of the phone line. He’s very polite and is using my name at the end of every sentence. I don’t suppose Klingons would be all that polite.
I’ve explained what I need and he has very helpfully repeated it back to me. Sadly he’s repeated it back to me wrong. Twice.
I’ve finally made Glaplutttteaaa understand. Or perhaps I’ve finally explained myself clearly enough. Who knows? I’m being put through to someone else. Maybe I’ll get a Vulcan this time or a Romulan.
Glaplutttteaaa put me through to Tony. I don’t think that Tony is a very Romulan name. It sounds like the name of an Earthling. I’m confused though because the line is so faint and crackly that I must be talking to someone at the other end of the galaxy.
Having got my postcode (why?) he now tells me that they don’t offer this service. Well. I’m obviously pleased to know this and won’t waste any more time with them.
The chief executive has just phoned me. Literally minutes after my conversation with Glaplutttteaaa and Tony of the Klingon Empire. Apparently the sales person has a spare phone line and will use that to make calls with.
I’m having one of those days when I feel like I’ve been transported to an alternate universe where I’m an unwitting actor in a very bad sitcom. I can almost hear the canned laughter. Where is the remote control?