A Complaint on the Phone

The bench had been ordered in March for the back garden, and it arrived on a Tuesday in a box the size of a cricket bat. Colin Prewitt carried it inside, opened it carefully, and found one wooden leg, some screws and a leaflet in four languages.

He looked in the box twice, which is what people do. Then he looked behind the shed, in case the delivery driver had left the rest of it there. There was nothing behind the shed except a watering can and last year's leaves.

The number for complaints was printed on the leaflet in very small type. A recorded voice told him that his call was important and that all of the advisers were busy. Then it played eleven minutes of a song that had no beginning and no end.

"Customer care, this is Bea speaking." Colin explained the situation in one long sentence. Bea said she was very sorry to hear that, and asked for his reference number. He read out fourteen characters. She said the system didn't recognise it, and asked him to read them again.

The second time it worked. "I can see the order," she said. "It says here that three boxes were sent." Colin said that one box had arrived. Bea said that according to the warehouse, three had been scanned. Colin said the warehouse had not carried the box up his path.

There was a short silence, the kind that means somebody is being polite on purpose. Then Bea said she would raise a case. She asked whether he wanted a refund, a replacement, or the missing spare parts. Colin said he wanted a bench, which he had thought was clear.

He was transferred to the returns team. The returns team told him that a case had been raised by customer care and that returns dealt only with items which had already been received. "I have received an item," Colin said. "I have received a leg."

He was put on hold again. This time the song was different, which he took as progress. When somebody came back, it was Bea. She apologised, said the transfer had been a mistake, and admitted that she had been listening to the whole conversation by accident.

"Between us," she said, "the other two boxes are probably still in Wolverhampton. It happens with long items. If you send me a photo of what you've got, I can order the rest today and mark it urgent." Colin, who had been ready for a fight, found he had nothing to say.

He sent the photo: one leg, on the kitchen table, next to a mug for scale. Bea replied within four minutes. She wrote that she had never seen a bench photographed so seriously, and that a voucher for ten pounds had been added to his account for his patience.

The two boxes arrived on the Friday. So did a third box, which contained a complete second bench. Colin stood in the hall and looked at it for some time. Then he rang the number again, and this time he only waited two minutes.

"Customer care, this is Bea speaking." "It's the leg," Colin said. Bea laughed out loud, which is not in any script. He explained about the extra bench and asked how he should send it back. She said the return would cost the company more than the bench was worth.

So the second bench was kept. It stands by the shed, where the sun reaches it in the late afternoon, and Colin's neighbour Marguerite sits on it most Sundays and complains about her own delivery, which is still in Wolverhampton and always will be.