CHRIS BENNETT resolved a couple of issues recently…
SOMETHING has been bothering me for quite a long time, but only recently did I realise what it is. And it has a lot to do with the smaller matter of Phrenobia and the call centre.
From time to time, usually in connection with my bank or my cellphone, I have to make use, for want of a better word, of the services of the call centre offered by one or both of these tiresome institutions. This is something for which only words of the order of ‘dread’ and ‘loathing’ seem appropriate.
For it is only recently, as I say, that the cacophonic tones of Phrenobia’s voice revealed all.
I had tried to sort out a problem with the cellphone and as a last resort and after much frustration I called the said centre.
Now, for those of you who are not sure what a call centre is let me try to shine a little light on the subject.
In the old days, days before sometime like 1970, if you had a problem that required some help from the bank you had two clear and simple choices: either go to the bank or, if you had one, pick up the phone and dial the bank’s number. Maybe I should add at this point that there was usually to be found next to the phone a directory containing, in alphabetical order, the names of anyone you may have to call.
This of course, included the bank (etc.); when someone answered you asked, by name, for the person to whom you wished to speak. All fine and dandy. The problem was solved.
Now, in the 21st century, a time of great simplification and much curtailing of bothersome things like calling the phone company or the bank, you dial the number of a call centre.
The advantage of the first method, especially of going into the bank in person, was that you had a good idea of what the problem was and the person to whom you would speak, directly, face to face, would quickly grasp your dilemma. He/she would listen to you.
Today you are spared all this tiresome to-ing and fro-ing.
You simply pick up the phone (cellular or with strings attached) and dial the number of the call centre. The phone will ring once or twice; a good start. Now you are at the mercy of the institution, and they know it. You will first be welcomed by an androgynous, rather tinny, voice and told how valuable your custom is to them. Well, it would be wouldn’t it; they spend your money.
The voice will then list a number of options, none of which will come anywhere near to solving your problem.
These options are accessed by pressing a key on the number pad. After listening to about a dozen choices, you are invited, in tones of charm laced with an edge of exasperation, to hold the line for the next available agent.
Because the bank (etc.) is being subjected to a nightmarish barrage of calls at that moment you will be in for a long wait. Two conclusions can be drawn from this: one, the bank is incapable of doing its job properly and is falling apart at the seams, hence the swathe of enquiries from bewildered customers, or, two, the available agents are having tea, chatting to their girl/boy friends, playing computer games or on strike.
Eventually you will hear the ear-splitting sounds of someone who may be saying, “Hello, Glebe’s Bank, Phrenobia speaking, how can I help you?” On the other hand she may not, because you won’t have been able to distinguish a word.
At least by now you will have forgotten what the problem was.
CB
25/3/11
620wds
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