One of the biggest downsides to becoming an adult (along with worsening hangovers and the slow, inexorable crawl towards death) is dealing with service providers. I know this because I used to work for one, and because I have spent the last two weeks on the phone to Eircom.
All through my college years I worked in a call centre for one of our national banks, the one that rhymes with "make the tea". I spent five years with them, evenings and weekends. So I know all the tricks. What freephone number to call. How to bypass the automated phone system. When to call, who to ask for and how to speak to them. I am prouder of this than my college degree, and it has probably been of more use. But Eircom, oh how they've tested me.
We signed up for a broadband bundle with them in January and have had shambolic service from them since. We're moving house on Saturday and I've been determined to take this opportunity to kick them to the kerb. They wanted a pay-off as we'd be breaking our contract with them. They couldn't decide on an appropriate fee, so I decided that they shouldn't impose one at all. And I finally got them to agree.
I AM THE CHAMPIONS.
What's more, I did it without calling anyone names or reducing anyone (myself included) to tears. I am, justifiably - I think, proud. Stacked up alongside my square-offs with An Post and the Passport Office earlier this year, I'm thinking I should consider a career change. I'd be the Supernanny Jo Frost of service providers. I could work from home. In my underpants. I could get superhero underpants, if that would make anyone feel better about it.
We sat down to dinner with friends last night and upon being asked how I was keeping, I said "Great! Today was a Really Good Day. I told Eircom to go fuck themselves!". Nobody applauded, which was disappointing, but I trucked on with my dull little story anyway, and my husband sat quiet and proud by my side. Later, when they asked about our holiday, I got all puffed up with self-righteousness again at the mention of our hire car. It had broken down on us and we were left for 24 hours without a car, then had to go on a €130 taxi ride back to the airport to get another (and the replacement car was a Kia. The injustice of it all!). I wanted our €130 refunded, plus monies for the 24 hours we spent without a car and monies for the downgrade from a Ford C-Max. "Maybe we should just let that one lie" said Andrew. "After all, we did fill their diesel car with petrol".
All through my college years I worked in a call centre for one of our national banks, the one that rhymes with "make the tea". I spent five years with them, evenings and weekends. So I know all the tricks. What freephone number to call. How to bypass the automated phone system. When to call, who to ask for and how to speak to them. I am prouder of this than my college degree, and it has probably been of more use. But Eircom, oh how they've tested me.
We signed up for a broadband bundle with them in January and have had shambolic service from them since. We're moving house on Saturday and I've been determined to take this opportunity to kick them to the kerb. They wanted a pay-off as we'd be breaking our contract with them. They couldn't decide on an appropriate fee, so I decided that they shouldn't impose one at all. And I finally got them to agree.
I AM THE CHAMPIONS.
What's more, I did it without calling anyone names or reducing anyone (myself included) to tears. I am, justifiably - I think, proud. Stacked up alongside my square-offs with An Post and the Passport Office earlier this year, I'm thinking I should consider a career change. I'd be the Supernanny Jo Frost of service providers. I could work from home. In my underpants. I could get superhero underpants, if that would make anyone feel better about it.
We sat down to dinner with friends last night and upon being asked how I was keeping, I said "Great! Today was a Really Good Day. I told Eircom to go fuck themselves!". Nobody applauded, which was disappointing, but I trucked on with my dull little story anyway, and my husband sat quiet and proud by my side. Later, when they asked about our holiday, I got all puffed up with self-righteousness again at the mention of our hire car. It had broken down on us and we were left for 24 hours without a car, then had to go on a €130 taxi ride back to the airport to get another (and the replacement car was a Kia. The injustice of it all!). I wanted our €130 refunded, plus monies for the 24 hours we spent without a car and monies for the downgrade from a Ford C-Max. "Maybe we should just let that one lie" said Andrew. "After all, we did fill their diesel car with petrol".
