‘Mama,’ said Q yesterday morning while we were having our breakfast, ‘what does fu%king fu#ked mean?’
She’s four, so that’s not ideal language, is it – she had overheard Gregory eloquently describing his frustrations with something.
Had I known the day that was ahead of me, I would have ditched daycare and brought her with me to work for a thorough explanation of the phrase.
Sometime early in January, Gregory called our friendly telecommunications company to order a phone line and internet for the new bar. We endured their ‘minimum ten day wait’ and finally had it installed last Friday.
Except on Monday when we went to connect it, it couldn’t be found. Not even by Dave our sparkie, whose work motto is ‘no extra charge for awesomeness’.
After two hours on the phone on Wednesday it was revealed to Gregory that the phone line had in fact been installed, AT SOMEBODY ELSE’S ADDRESS. And despite the fact that this particular company (who’s marketing campaign rhymes with mess, distress and reassess) accepts full responsibility for the balls up, they cannot fix it for ten working days.
WHICH MEANS WE HAVE TO DELAY THE OPENING OF THE BAR BECAUSE SOME MUPPET GAVE OUR INTERNET AND PHONE LINE TO A CAFE DOWN THE STREET.
Could we open without internet? Sure. We could handwrite the dockets instead of using the POS system (the reason we need internet) but then you’re behind from the get-go. Your accounting suddenly gets way more complicated than printing off data and emailing it to the bookkeeper and that reminds me of the dark days of the opening of Hartsyard when I was sleeping 3.5 hours a night and paying invoices so haphazardly, one supplier called me to say stop because now he owed us money!
Besides, we want to open with all our systems in place so that we can focus on the point of the whole exercise – great, drinks, great snacks, great service.
According to this particular company, because Telstra own the lines, it’s actually the Telstra technicians who do the installation and they therefore can’t demand a faster turnaround time than 10 working days.
Care to weigh in on this, Telstra, because your rivals were pretty happy to throw you well and truly under the bus.
So yesterday it was my turn and I began my campaign at 946 in the morning, shortly after leaving both girls (Edie for the first time) at their little daycare not far from the bar.
What followed was the most frustrating, excruciatingly irritating, fake-placating WASTE OF MY TIME that I have had to endure…ever I think.
Even queueing to renew my work visa in the middle of a February snowstorm in NYC had nothing on this experience.
I was transferred endlessly around their vast universe, put on hold for so long I had to recharge my phone twice, return calls with ‘solutions’ were promised but never delivered, tweets went unanswered, incorrect email addresses were provided, Facebook messages eventually responded to but never followed up… the irony of what their actual business is versus their ability to deliver said product is not lost on me.
But irony is not the word Q wanted explained.
Mistakes happen, we get that. When we make them at the restaurant we buy people a round of drinks or send them a dessert.
These guys can’t even call me back.
And if I manage to get through to someone they tell me that even if they do transfer me to their manager (who must choose that exact moment to go on a lunch break) i’ll be told the same thing; we can’t do anything to expedite the process. You’ll have to wait at least ten business days.
I just wanted to shove a pin in my eye I was so annoyed. I can’t stand being placated.
I’m so sorry you’ve had a negative experience, but I promise you i’ll get this sorted today.
Except that you didn’t.
False-sincerity. I really can’t stand that.
Thank you so much for holding the line, Naomi, I appreciate your patience.
I am very willing to tell you that there was not much about me that was patient yesterday.
Thank you for your time Naomi, is there anything else I can help you with today?
WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? YOU HAVEN’T ACTUALLY HELPED ME AT ALL????
And so, now we have to delay the opening of our bar.
Not because the mirrors haven’t arrived – they’re due 36 hours before kick-off, plenty of time.
Not because the supports for the stools are still being made, or that most of the walls are still bare.
It won’t be the fact that we haven’t determined how we want to present the menu yet, or that uniforms (if any) are undecided.
Nor will the uninstalled beer keg system slow us down.
The unfinished cocktail menu and the recipe testing that has to occur are both details I know we’ll get to shortly.
I have complete faith that all these things will eventuate in time because I know Gregory, me and our fabulous team will just keep working until all our problems are solved.
Except this one. This we cannot solve.
We are at the mercy of a big, massive, we-don’t-actually-care-about-our-customers-despite-spending-a-tonne-of-money-to-make-it-look-like-we-do company.
And that, dear Q, is what fuc#ing fuc*ed really means.
But I still never want to hear you say it ever again.
This is me at my makeshift desk out the back of the bar build when the madness first began.
It is now 957am, 24 hours since I first went into battle.
There has been no word from PUSS (the company).
I hear nothing but the soft pfft, pfft of tumbleweeds rolling down the length of my un-internet-ed bar.
Next stop? As many social media platforms as I can harness and then a call to the TIO.
Stand by for updates people.