Posted: May 6, 2013 in Uncategorized
If Pigs Could Fly
If politicians were honest and not greedy,
with a few intelligent ones too;.
If call centres didn’t exist
we could ring our bank and talk to a real person
who knew us, knew how to help;
If all the people had worthwhile jobs,
were housed in decency and fed
If we were all kind and tolerant
and never went to war,
there would be no need for protest marches
and ugly demonstrations which are such a bore
There’d be nothing left to grumble about
oh yes there would: the weather
For WWP posted 6.5.13!
Posted: April 11, 2012 in political
I’ve just posted a rant on my other blog: http://vivinfrance.wordpress.com. It should really be here, but it is part of my Napowrimo endeavour to write at least one poem a day in April.
You know those numbered tickets you take from a machine to be served in order at the deli in Tesco? Well, they’ve started that here at the hospital, to check in on the ground floor for an appointment on the 6th (or any other) floor. The sheer weight of numbers waiting for appointments in any of a dozen departments, makes you late for your appointment, even though I was there an hour early.
Two desks were open for a queue of dozens. Each number takes at least ten minutes. Some people have gone missing, and the offi cials wait for them to come back. Then a late lady (sic) bursts in out of turn. French grumbles break out in the crowd.
They used to manage just fine without tickets, but now it’s getting as bad as it is in England.
While waiting, I skimmed through “Ici Paris”, the worst example of gutter journalism that I have encountered here. On the front cover, along with snippets of celeb gossip, was a photo of HRH Prince Charles, with Camilla behind, looking away from him. The headline “L’annonce à ébranlé l’Angleterre” (the news has shaken England). Le Divorce du siècle (the divorce of the century). I read the article, most of which was a re-hash of the Charles/Laididee débacle, and the rest was (im)pure speculation. On reaching home, I Googled for news of this shocking announbcement, but there was nothing. I hope the Prince of Wales and his wife sue.
It’s been a while since I’ve been sufficiently wound up to post a rant, but this one really got my goat in spades: http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/grrlscientist/2012/mar/21/2?INTCMP=SRCH To summarise, Scotts, a company in America has been convicted of knowingly poisoning birdseed and lawncare products – which are sold in Europe under various names, quoted in the article – for several years, despite being warned by employees. They have not yet been sentenced, but I am guilty of viciously hoping the bastards go to prison for a long time, even though, no doubt, the US courts will probably only sting them mildly in the pocket.
I am stupefied to read about the obscene bonus (and salary) being paid to the RBS chief executive. I don’t care if he single-handedly turned a dire situation into a better one (which, let’s face it, he didn’t), I don’t care if he can walk on water: no-one deserves or could possible justify such astronomic sums in any economic climate let alone one where the bank has sacked dozens of front-line employees in order to cut costs. I am even more angry that the UK Government – which owns 80% of RBS – seems to be unable or unwilling to stop this farce.
Do they have no shame? Is there nothing that can be done to change this avarice culture ?
I am verging on insane, having spent unproductive hours on the British Embassy, Paris, website trying to get the renewal forms for Jock’s passport, downloading new software so I could print the forms, helping Jock (!) to fill them in, then back to the website, as you can’t pay by cheque, and need ANOTHER form to pay by credit card.
Couldn’t find it by visiting every page on the website several times. Rang the office in Paris, who told me by recorded message that they can no longer deal with passport enquiries, referred back to blankety blank website. After another rootle round, I found a number to ring in UK, but they wouldn’t even hear the question until I’d given them credit card details, so that they could charge me 74 pence a minute to listen to me (plus the International call charge, natch!)
The upshot was that I had to brave the infernal website again while the girl talked me through how to get the payment form. She was a delightful Scottish girl and I asked her to tell the bosses that the site was the worst I’d come across in twenty years online, and to ask them how they thought my technincompoop husband of 78 would have coped if he were a widower. I now have to pay £160 plus courier charges to get the new passport delivered to us. Jock hopes he doesn’t live another 10 years!
The upshot of this rigmarole was webweariness, aggravated antipathy, minimally mollified callcentre rage and ten years off my lifespan.
Posted: January 6, 2012 in Uncategorized
Tags: banks, call centre rage, rant
I’m just a pussycat, really,
so why did I explode today –
use words I never use
to a poor defenceless call centre girl?
If I tell all, my blood pressure
will go through the roof again
so I won’t.
Suffice it to say that my bank
gave me the runaround,
passed me from pillar to post
and back again. It took an hour
to make a transfer no different
from any of hundreds
that I’ve made in twenty years.
This is no poem, it’s a rant.
I did apologise for the language
if not for the rage that caused it.
“Ever have a day when you weren’t quite yourself, or maybe you felt like more than your usual self? Did someone cross you and your claws came out? Or, you needed to find the mustang within yourself and break free? Or perhaps you morphed into mama grizzly or ran with the wolves? On the other hand, you could even have found your inner sloth and spent all day relaxing! Find the animal within yourself, or within a character. We’re going to leave the actual critters at the zoo. I want the beast inside you to come out. Or the animal beauty!” This was the prompt that met my eyes at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2012/01/fireblossom-friday-2you-animal.html just after I had put the phone down on the bank, snarling and spitting. No animal beauty in me I’m afraid. I used some of my spleen to write what my bank manager Dad used to call a stinker of a letter which I will not send until I’ve cooled down!