Following yesterday’s despair at my missing clothes, I had some good news this morning from Claire. City Link have delivered my clothes! Yes, they’re a day late, and yes, I am still awaiting an explanation, but I am happy. That is unless I arrive home, open the package, only to find a dead cat, instead of my expensive sweater-top.
I thought it was about time I smartened myself up. Granted, I don’t look like a tramp. OK, maybe a well-groomed hobo, but I am not flash or dapper. Therefore, I decided to buy myself a new outfit. This outfit will be reserved for special occasions – meals out, parties and all the other sophisticated evens I (never) get invited to.
I was lucky enough to have been given vouchers for John Lewis for my birthday in March. Therefore, after spending a while on Amazon, my usual clothes supplier (yes, I know, I know!), I decided to go shopping at Johnny’s and ordered myself a fancy shirt, a pair of jeans and a top.
John Lewis is an expensive shop, but is of exceptional quality. I won’t say how much my clothes cost! Needless to say, I’ve NEVER spent that much on a shirt and NEVER will again. Claire was kind enough to wait in for my clothes to me delivered today. I had a delivery. This delivery consisted of a fancy shirt and a pair if jeans. Where was my top? Where the hell was my top? My lush, dapper, expensive top?
I rang Johnny’s. Mr. Lewis confirmed that the top had been packaged separately and couldn’t explain why they had not both been delivered. So basically, the courier had fucked up. That courier was City Link. Looking at City Link’s Twitter bio, they describe themselves as “reliable”. Based on personal experience, including issues I’ve had in the past with the same courier, this is a self-proclaimed accolade.
John Lewis are going to try and contact Shitty, I mean City Link, tomorrow and then track down my very expensive top! I have nothing against John Lewis, although do wish they would use a more reliable courier. As I mentioned earlier, from personal experience, I have found City Link to be far from satisfactory.
This weekend I took on the mighty force of the retail industry. I am pleased to report that the result was positive. A victory for the little man.
Summer is coming, and now we have a garden, we thought we would get something we can sit outside on and soak up all those British sunshine rays. A trip to Argos beckoned and a table and chair set purchased. Upon arriving home, the said table and chair were unpacked, only to find that somebody had beaten us to it! Half the bloody stuff had been opened by a previous customer! It also appeared whoever had tampered with our table and chairs had already lost or eaten the screws, instruction manual and other bits that come with the set. I don’t want to sound fussy, but those screws and bits are essential for holding the table together. Without them the table would fall apart, not that we would be able to put it together anyway, as the instructions weren’t included!
And breathe!
I am sure that Argos would have been more than happy to exchange the half missing table for one fully equipped with accessories and instructions. However, it weighed a tonne and I for one wasn’t prepared to cart it back all the way back to the store! I picked up the trusty Batphone. I was tempted to ring 999, but thought against it and instead dialled the emergency number on the receipt. A friendly, but unhelpful lady informed me that I would have to return it to the shop. Bollocks to that. It wasn’t my fault Argos had sold us second hand equipment without our knowledge and with missing bits…
And breathe!
Remembering all I learnt from Anne Robinson, while watching Watchdog, during my childhood, I asked to speak to the manager of the Bath branch. After waiting on hold for what seemed like a lifetime, although in reality was probably just three minutes, I spoke to the man in charge, who kindly (and rightly) offered to send somebody to the house to swap the table for a brand spanking new one. It was nice of him and a better offer than the lass on the phone who suggested I pay for a taxi to take the stuff back, and get the fare back in the form of store credit.
The next morning, some bloke from Argos turned up with a replacement table, parasol and chair, which he swapped for the crap one. He was apologetic and asked if there was anything else he could do. Stupidly I missed the opportunity to ask him to assemble to table for me! Doh! Oh well, after about half an hour of crying and swearing at an Allen key, it was built. We can now sit outside in the hot heat. Just a shame it’s pissed it down ever since.
Friday was my lovely fiancée, Claire’s birthday. To celebrate, we went out for a meal. I would like to say that we visited a tranquil, romantic restaurant and dined upon the finest foods that money can buy. Instead we sat on a dirty table in a corner of busy bistro pub, surrounded by screaming children.
Things didn’t go that well from the start. After finally getting to our table, the waitress said she would come back and clean it for us. She failed to return. That should have been a warning.
We waited a while for our meal, although were not without entertainment. The wall immediately next to our table was being used to screen Wallace & Gromit. After watching ‘A Close Shave’ two and a half times (on mute), the the food arrived. I had been adventurous and ordered the chicken skewers. I often worry about eating chicken, for fear of it being underdone. No chance here. The meat must have been cooked for days, as it was completely dry and tasteless. Any juices and flavours had long since been burnt away. The wooden board it was served on looked more moist.
After hacking at the dish for what seemed like an eternity, I gave up and started on the chips. I had taken so long trying to consume the inedible chicken, that the chips had gone cold. I asked for a refund, describing the dish to the poor and embarrassed waitress as “disgusting”. That’s my rant over, but a big sad face for The Lodekka ‘Hungry Horse’ pub in Bristol. 🙁
I did plan to write about my entire weekend in this one blog post, but time and tiredness have got the better of me, so I’ll be heading up to bed now. Tomorrow will be Part 2 of my weekend blog, which involves watching football, a trip to the studios of Strictly Come Dancing (kind of) and erecting a Christmas tree. Hehehe. I said erect.
Last night I was robbed. Robbed in my own home. Sadly, you won’t hear about this mugging on Crimewatch. It won’t even be reported in the local newspaper. This is because, apparently, there was no crime.
The perpetrator of the crime-which-wasn’t is BT, AKA ‘British Telecom’, or as I like to refer to them, ‘Bunch of Twats’.
With my house move taking place next month, I have spent the last couple of days cancelling/moving various contracts with utility companies I hold at my current property. All of whom have been very amicable. All apart from BT.
Ending a contract with BT is like telling a teenage-romance that a relationship is over. There are tears, begs of “I can change” and demands of explanations for the break up. Of course, all the emotion came from BT (I didn’t give a shit). Dry your eyes, mate. I know it’s hard to take but my mind has been made up. There’s plenty more fish in the sea.
Maybe the mugging came because I was cheeky. I firmly, but politely told the Scottish operator, “I know you have to do our job and ask the questions, but I really, really want to leave BT, and there is nothing you can say which will make me transfer the contract to my new property, so please don’t ask”. The Scottish operator still asked.
Once Agnes McFadden had finally accepted I was leaving and not coming back, she informed me that I owed BT £30. What for? Disconnecting my broadband, apparently. Presumably this is a big job, which can only be done by a specially trained expert, who will painstakingly spend hours removing me from the service. For that, the £30 would seem justifiable. Something tells me though, it just involves pressing a few buttons, which will probably be done by a seventeen year old, spotty apprentice.
Apparently this £30-thing was in the small print – well-hidden no doubt. I signed up for broadband in 2007 and when I asked Agnes for a copy of the contract from back then, I was told it was not available. Basically, they were taking £30 off me, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Needless to say, I won’t be using or recommending BT. I won’t be using BT Sport, either. In fact, I hope BT Sport goes the way of ITV Digital.
Enjoy your £30, BT. How do you sleep at night?
About Me
So you stumbled across my blog. No doubt after searching for something bizarre on Google. Before you hit that 'Back Button', why not stay and have a read for a few minutes?
If you are after a website which gives advice on how to hack an iPhone X, download the latest Steven Seagal movie, or view nudy ladies, you've come to the wrong place and may now press 'Back'.
However, if you would like a lifestyle blog, written by a 30-something chap, living in Bath (England), feast your eyes on this.
You won't discover how to copy PlayStation 4 games. What you will find is a blog, covering life in the West Country, the highs and lows of supporting two unsuccessful football teams, while sharing a house with a wife and rabbit.
All written by a man, somewhere on the sanity-scale between normal and eccentric.
