Pass on the message: dead customers never come back

How Are You Being Served?

Death is a fact of customer service. Customers are human after all. Some companies appear to struggle with this concept. A neighbour's father died. Amid the usual arrangements was the matter of cancelling his subscription to cable television. His son sent a letter to the company and presumed that would be an end to it. The cable company quickly fired off a reply proclaiming that the contract continued until its customer brought it to an end. The fact that the poor man was not in a position to do so seemed to escape it. The deceased's widow sent off another letter and that seemed to penetrate the corporate carapace. A date was arranged for the cable people to call round. One month later, they arrived unannounced.

And that appeared to be that, a tale of crass incompetence and bureaucratic stupidity. Then, a few months later, a letter arrived addressed to the dead man. It was from the cable company thanking him for his custom and noting that he had cancelled his contract. As a valued customer, the company hoped that he would soon be back.

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Somewhere there must be a stationery shop which sells calendars and diaries which only stretch a few weeks or a couple of months into the future. The shop is a hugely successful business. How do I know? Well, in a fit of organisation I rang the garage to arrange a service for my car. This was due in two months but it had popped into my head and, to be honest, I had nothing better to do. Anyway, the overwhelmingly nice man with access to the service diary said he would only book it in provisionally as they could only book cars in for services one month in advance. Why? Was the garage likely to self-destruct?

A friend wanted to make an appointment with an opticians. Like many working people, she wanted to go during her lunch hour. "I am sorry, we're fully booked at that time for the next two weeks," the receptionist said. "Well, it doesn't matter, some time after that during my lunch hour will do," my friend replied. The receptionist shook her head: "We only book appointments two weeks in advance. You could ring every day to see if there's a cancellation."

If you ever find the stationery shop buy up all the two-week diaries and calendars. It may be our only hope.

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A summer's evening in a pub garden. What could be better? The children entertain themselves on the climbing frame, the beer tastes as John Major once imagined it and the red wine is almost palatable. All is right with the world. And then comes the time to order food. "Do you have a children's menu?" I ask. "No, but I could do fish fingers and chips," says the landlady helpfully. This sounds encouraging. Unfortunately our daughter is allergic to potatoes so could we have fish fingers and rice please? The barmaid looks nonplussed and disappears into the darkest recesses to consult the oracle. She comes back with the word and the word is no, "No, fish fingers come with chips." This is said as if it were a fact of life. In this pub, it is.

A glance at the specials of the day board shows that chilli con carne plus rice is today's choice. Emboldened with lager, I say, "But you have got rice." The barmaid is confident of her reply: "Yes." I, therefore, order a chilli con carne with the rice in one bowl and the chilli in another. My plan is to cunningly remove the chips from the fish-finger plates onto my own. This makes everyone happy. I am pleased with my ingenuity (sad, I know) and they think they have won. We then have to wait more than an hour for the food to arrive. The excuse? Too many people ordered at once and some wanted their steaks well done. Stick with fish fingers.