...when one lives in the country that is buckling under the weight of its own bureaucracy and so-called efficiency, choking on procedures and call centres and protocols. Gah. How DO they do it?
I've never, ever understood why doing anything at all in England is so, so, so time consuming and complicated. Want a bank account? Sure. Walk into a bank, and fill out a form (well, actually, they fill it out for you). Then come back in three days to discuss the form with someone. Then, in five business days, your account will be open. But you must wait seven business days to receive your convenience card by post. And then, you must call to confirm you've received the convenience card. Then, they will mail you the PIN so that you can actually use said card. That will take seven business days, too. And if you want telephone banking, you'll need to sign up, after you're received your PIN. They'll send you a new number for that in five business days, and the PIN for that will arrive five business days after that. Online banking? Have you had your account for six months yet? Then forget it. When I opened my account, the genius who apparently had to fill in my form for me wrote down my name as "Danielle NARIE Lemon." Now, Narie is an interesting middle name, but it isn't mine. Mine is "Marie." So I had to repeat the entire process in order to get cheques and cards issued in the correct name.
I'm not kidding.
It also took me approximately 6 weeks at each address to get internet service, despite, when I moved to my new address, informing them 6 weeks in advance that I wanted, NEEDED, my broadband set up when I arrived. I pay a premium for "high speed" internet. I did an online test today to see what my download/upload speed was. It was 365 kbps. In the UK government's recent Digital Britain report, it proclaimed that all citizens should have, and that the entire country will by 2012 have access, at least a 2MBps connection. That's the minimum. I pay for up to an 8MBps connection.
And don't get me started on the passwords: I have a password for every utility account, three for Sky (because you know you definitely need a separate password for your phone, internet and cable service, even if they are all coming from the same provider and you pay for them all on one bill), a password for black cabs, a password for Addison Lee, a password for entering my office after hours, a password for my Tesco Clubcard points, even a password for my Password keeper on my Blackberry, which has perhaps been the singularly most useful application ever installed on a PDA.
Anyway, letting agents have been in and out of my flat for the past couple of weeks showing the property for rent. I warned the agent over the phone that there are two switches in my front hall: one is the light switch, and one is the switch for my hot water tank. The hot water tank switch, I said, also has a red light on it. "Don't touch that one," I said. " I need that one to stay on so I have hot water." "Not a problem," she said. "And be careful of the cat," I added.
Last Friday I arrived home quite late and noticed that the little glowing red light wasn't on on the hot water tank. I walked over to inspect, and sure enough, it had been switched off. I heaved a sigh and flipped it back to the on position, but no light. I flipped it back and forth a few times. No dice. The fuse had blown.
On Saturday morning, I called British Gas. The Landlord pays for a 24 hour Home Care emergency call-out service from British Gas, which they provide even though my energy is actually supplied by a competitor company, EDF (I was a BG customer at my old flat, but when I informed them I was moving to this address, and asked to transfer my service, they informed me that since the previous tenant was with EDF, I had to stay with EDF for 30 days, then inform EDF I wanted to transfer to BG, pay an account closure with EDF, then open a new account with BG. Understandably, I think, I lost the will to live and never switched back to BG).
Anyway, this Home Care account means BG is to show up if anything goes wrong in the flat in terms of the plumbing, electrical, you name it. I phoned, explained the problem, and asked them to send someone round to replace the fuses. I was told someone would be there between 12 and 6. This was fine, as I was home all afternoon cooking for dinner guests. Not a problem.
I got a call at 5:30 from the engineer. "I'm in Streatham," he shouted at me over a very bad mobile connection. "Do you know where Streatham is? It will take me an hour to get there!" "That's not a problem," I said, "I would very much like to have some hot water." What I didn't know is that BG had already called The Landlord in Manchester (even though the Home Care account is in my name) to check that it was "really an emergency" because they didn't want to send someone out for a "false alarm." As his wife was in the middle of having a baby, he was none too pleased at the interruption.
My guests arrived at 6:30. The engineer arrived at around 7 pm. I was in the middle of cooking dinner at that point, and trying to entertain. He replaced the fuses, but also felt, that while my guests were in the other room waiting, he should a) give me a lecture on how much he doesn't like working on the weekends on call for BG, b) reminisce with me how much better his job in his home country of Iraq was, c) give me a crash course in British electrical wiring, and d) speak to me at length about the pop star he couldn't name but he felt I resembled, whether I should learn guitar or piano, and about his own career as a semi-professional guitar player at some seedy jazz club in Hammersmith. While this was all fascinating, I was quite relieved when at 8 pm he replaced the fuses, had me sign a piece of paper, and was off. The lovely glowing red light was winking at me again. I'd have hot water.
Sunday morning. After a bit of a lie-in, I decided it was time for a long bath. As I went to the linen closet to fetch a towel, I noticed that the little glowing red light was, sadly, off. Hopeful that perhaps the engineer had simply turned it off before he left, I peered at the switch. Nope. It was definitely in the "on" position. But no water. The fuse had blown again. There was just enough hot water left for me to have a quick shower, but a bath was definitely out of the question.
I called BG again. They promised to send an engineer first thing Monday morning. "Fine," I said. "I'm actually home all day that day." I was, because the movers were coming to pack my things and ship them to Canada. The engineer arrived shortly after the movers left on Monday afternoon, and replaced the fuses again. He warned me that I would need to only turn on the red switch when I needed hot water, about "an hour before I needed it." I argued this was impractical. In the mornings that I am not at the gym, I get up and shower immediately. I couldn't wait an hour for the tank to heat up! He shrugged, had me sign the piece of paper saying he'd done his job, and off he went. I flipped the switch to "on", and sat down to wait an hour so I could finally have a warm shower, which I eventually got.
Tuesday morning. Time to go to work. I got up an hour early, and flipped the switch to "on." No red light. I flicked it back and forth.
Blown again.
I emailed The Landlord. "I can call BG out again," I typed furiously into my Blackberry, "but what is the point if they will only replace the fuses?" He asked me to try one more time. Unfortunately, I was absolutely swamped at work all week, working late every night, and had no opportunity to take an afternoon or morning off to wait for an engineer. So I spent the week carting my shower things to the office so I could get ready at the gym and avoid the ice-shower at home. On the positive side, it meant I made it to the gym every day this week instead of my usual twice-weekly jaunts. It also, however, meant that I had to get up at 5:30 to make the 6 am boat into the City, so I'd have enough time to work out and shower before getting to the office.
Anyway. I called yesterday and explained the situation to BG. "You can't just come and fix the fuses," I said. "You need to look at the tank, as there is obviously something wrong with that connection, perhaps the element inside the tank has shorted out." (I had been briefed by The Landlord on what to say, as truthfully, this would never have occurred to me-I would just have broken down in tears and wailed unintelligibly). The call centre attendant was very sympathetic, spoke to her manager, and booked an appointment for today, Saturday. "I do apologise," she said. I was told that an engineer would arrive between 12 pm and 6 pm today. This effectively meant I was stuck at home all day, but I wanted, I needed, my hot water. So I sat and waited.
It's now 10:51 pm.
I don't know why I waited so long to call them back, but it just became a battle of wills. I should have just phoned at 6:01 pm and said, "Get. Someone. Here. Now." But no. I thought, "the chatty engineer was late last week. Maybe they'll come at 8." I didn't make any evening plans. I just sat. And waited. And got angrier and angrier. And more indignant. Finally, at 10 pm tonight, I phoned. Someone answered; well, they are supposed to be available 24 hours a day. I icily explained that I had been waiting all day for the THIRD engineer in a WEEK to come and PLEASE provide me with hot water.
"I do apologise," said the attendant. "The next available slots are for Monday between 12 and 6 pm."
"NO," I yelled (and I actually yelled). "I. NEED. HOT WATER. Someone needs to come and FIX THIS. TOMORROW. And I am NOT SITTING AROUND ALL DAY AND WAITING. AND I AM NOT TAKING ANOTHER DAY OFF WORK." Of course this issue had to be referred to his supervisor, and then transferred to another department. Approximately four more "I do apologises" later, I have been assured someone will be here tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile, I've successfully rented an apartment and hooked up all the utilities in Vancouver. I pay more than double my Vancouver rent here in London, but I guess I should have read the fine print: hot water extra.
And the kicker: when they finally agreed to come out tomorrow morning, the attendant said politely, "Is there anything else I can help you with?" I said no, in a slightly more cordial tone, the red mist beginning to fade from before my eyes. "Then can I ask who your current energy provider is? And did you know you could save money if you considered a switch to British Gas?"
I hung up on him.
I've never, ever understood why doing anything at all in England is so, so, so time consuming and complicated. Want a bank account? Sure. Walk into a bank, and fill out a form (well, actually, they fill it out for you). Then come back in three days to discuss the form with someone. Then, in five business days, your account will be open. But you must wait seven business days to receive your convenience card by post. And then, you must call to confirm you've received the convenience card. Then, they will mail you the PIN so that you can actually use said card. That will take seven business days, too. And if you want telephone banking, you'll need to sign up, after you're received your PIN. They'll send you a new number for that in five business days, and the PIN for that will arrive five business days after that. Online banking? Have you had your account for six months yet? Then forget it. When I opened my account, the genius who apparently had to fill in my form for me wrote down my name as "Danielle NARIE Lemon." Now, Narie is an interesting middle name, but it isn't mine. Mine is "Marie." So I had to repeat the entire process in order to get cheques and cards issued in the correct name.
I'm not kidding.
It also took me approximately 6 weeks at each address to get internet service, despite, when I moved to my new address, informing them 6 weeks in advance that I wanted, NEEDED, my broadband set up when I arrived. I pay a premium for "high speed" internet. I did an online test today to see what my download/upload speed was. It was 365 kbps. In the UK government's recent Digital Britain report, it proclaimed that all citizens should have, and that the entire country will by 2012 have access, at least a 2MBps connection. That's the minimum. I pay for up to an 8MBps connection.
And don't get me started on the passwords: I have a password for every utility account, three for Sky (because you know you definitely need a separate password for your phone, internet and cable service, even if they are all coming from the same provider and you pay for them all on one bill), a password for black cabs, a password for Addison Lee, a password for entering my office after hours, a password for my Tesco Clubcard points, even a password for my Password keeper on my Blackberry, which has perhaps been the singularly most useful application ever installed on a PDA.
Anyway, letting agents have been in and out of my flat for the past couple of weeks showing the property for rent. I warned the agent over the phone that there are two switches in my front hall: one is the light switch, and one is the switch for my hot water tank. The hot water tank switch, I said, also has a red light on it. "Don't touch that one," I said. " I need that one to stay on so I have hot water." "Not a problem," she said. "And be careful of the cat," I added.
Last Friday I arrived home quite late and noticed that the little glowing red light wasn't on on the hot water tank. I walked over to inspect, and sure enough, it had been switched off. I heaved a sigh and flipped it back to the on position, but no light. I flipped it back and forth a few times. No dice. The fuse had blown.
On Saturday morning, I called British Gas. The Landlord pays for a 24 hour Home Care emergency call-out service from British Gas, which they provide even though my energy is actually supplied by a competitor company, EDF (I was a BG customer at my old flat, but when I informed them I was moving to this address, and asked to transfer my service, they informed me that since the previous tenant was with EDF, I had to stay with EDF for 30 days, then inform EDF I wanted to transfer to BG, pay an account closure with EDF, then open a new account with BG. Understandably, I think, I lost the will to live and never switched back to BG).
Anyway, this Home Care account means BG is to show up if anything goes wrong in the flat in terms of the plumbing, electrical, you name it. I phoned, explained the problem, and asked them to send someone round to replace the fuses. I was told someone would be there between 12 and 6. This was fine, as I was home all afternoon cooking for dinner guests. Not a problem.
I got a call at 5:30 from the engineer. "I'm in Streatham," he shouted at me over a very bad mobile connection. "Do you know where Streatham is? It will take me an hour to get there!" "That's not a problem," I said, "I would very much like to have some hot water." What I didn't know is that BG had already called The Landlord in Manchester (even though the Home Care account is in my name) to check that it was "really an emergency" because they didn't want to send someone out for a "false alarm." As his wife was in the middle of having a baby, he was none too pleased at the interruption.
My guests arrived at 6:30. The engineer arrived at around 7 pm. I was in the middle of cooking dinner at that point, and trying to entertain. He replaced the fuses, but also felt, that while my guests were in the other room waiting, he should a) give me a lecture on how much he doesn't like working on the weekends on call for BG, b) reminisce with me how much better his job in his home country of Iraq was, c) give me a crash course in British electrical wiring, and d) speak to me at length about the pop star he couldn't name but he felt I resembled, whether I should learn guitar or piano, and about his own career as a semi-professional guitar player at some seedy jazz club in Hammersmith. While this was all fascinating, I was quite relieved when at 8 pm he replaced the fuses, had me sign a piece of paper, and was off. The lovely glowing red light was winking at me again. I'd have hot water.
Sunday morning. After a bit of a lie-in, I decided it was time for a long bath. As I went to the linen closet to fetch a towel, I noticed that the little glowing red light was, sadly, off. Hopeful that perhaps the engineer had simply turned it off before he left, I peered at the switch. Nope. It was definitely in the "on" position. But no water. The fuse had blown again. There was just enough hot water left for me to have a quick shower, but a bath was definitely out of the question.
I called BG again. They promised to send an engineer first thing Monday morning. "Fine," I said. "I'm actually home all day that day." I was, because the movers were coming to pack my things and ship them to Canada. The engineer arrived shortly after the movers left on Monday afternoon, and replaced the fuses again. He warned me that I would need to only turn on the red switch when I needed hot water, about "an hour before I needed it." I argued this was impractical. In the mornings that I am not at the gym, I get up and shower immediately. I couldn't wait an hour for the tank to heat up! He shrugged, had me sign the piece of paper saying he'd done his job, and off he went. I flipped the switch to "on", and sat down to wait an hour so I could finally have a warm shower, which I eventually got.
Tuesday morning. Time to go to work. I got up an hour early, and flipped the switch to "on." No red light. I flicked it back and forth.
Blown again.
I emailed The Landlord. "I can call BG out again," I typed furiously into my Blackberry, "but what is the point if they will only replace the fuses?" He asked me to try one more time. Unfortunately, I was absolutely swamped at work all week, working late every night, and had no opportunity to take an afternoon or morning off to wait for an engineer. So I spent the week carting my shower things to the office so I could get ready at the gym and avoid the ice-shower at home. On the positive side, it meant I made it to the gym every day this week instead of my usual twice-weekly jaunts. It also, however, meant that I had to get up at 5:30 to make the 6 am boat into the City, so I'd have enough time to work out and shower before getting to the office.
Anyway. I called yesterday and explained the situation to BG. "You can't just come and fix the fuses," I said. "You need to look at the tank, as there is obviously something wrong with that connection, perhaps the element inside the tank has shorted out." (I had been briefed by The Landlord on what to say, as truthfully, this would never have occurred to me-I would just have broken down in tears and wailed unintelligibly). The call centre attendant was very sympathetic, spoke to her manager, and booked an appointment for today, Saturday. "I do apologise," she said. I was told that an engineer would arrive between 12 pm and 6 pm today. This effectively meant I was stuck at home all day, but I wanted, I needed, my hot water. So I sat and waited.
It's now 10:51 pm.
I don't know why I waited so long to call them back, but it just became a battle of wills. I should have just phoned at 6:01 pm and said, "Get. Someone. Here. Now." But no. I thought, "the chatty engineer was late last week. Maybe they'll come at 8." I didn't make any evening plans. I just sat. And waited. And got angrier and angrier. And more indignant. Finally, at 10 pm tonight, I phoned. Someone answered; well, they are supposed to be available 24 hours a day. I icily explained that I had been waiting all day for the THIRD engineer in a WEEK to come and PLEASE provide me with hot water.
"I do apologise," said the attendant. "The next available slots are for Monday between 12 and 6 pm."
"NO," I yelled (and I actually yelled). "I. NEED. HOT WATER. Someone needs to come and FIX THIS. TOMORROW. And I am NOT SITTING AROUND ALL DAY AND WAITING. AND I AM NOT TAKING ANOTHER DAY OFF WORK." Of course this issue had to be referred to his supervisor, and then transferred to another department. Approximately four more "I do apologises" later, I have been assured someone will be here tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile, I've successfully rented an apartment and hooked up all the utilities in Vancouver. I pay more than double my Vancouver rent here in London, but I guess I should have read the fine print: hot water extra.
And the kicker: when they finally agreed to come out tomorrow morning, the attendant said politely, "Is there anything else I can help you with?" I said no, in a slightly more cordial tone, the red mist beginning to fade from before my eyes. "Then can I ask who your current energy provider is? And did you know you could save money if you considered a switch to British Gas?"
I hung up on him.