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Many of us have attempted to resolve an issue regarding online payments or a bill query or similar.
It isn’t easy, unlike the olden days, when someone answers your call with a simple question: “Hello, how can I help you?”
Anyway, that’s enough nostalgia for one day. So, I wanted to pay a bill, but the organisation’s website wasn’t functioning well enough to do this. In short, the website was malfunctioning, so I tried the listed contact number.
Nothing unusual there, although having responded to the request to key in my account number and date of birth, the automated service then spent several minutes offering irrelevant multiple options.
Talking to someone is rarely first on the list, so I adopted my default strategy: garbled nonsense responses and pressing the wrong buttons to frustrate the software enough to get to an operative option – eventually.
Simultaneously, I’m encouraged to “visit our website” where I can make payments and find ALL the answers to my questions. Like hell I can. All I can do is experience mounting frustration. And how do you know what my question is? I haven’t spoken to anyone yet.
Now comes the real crap. “Your call is important to us.”
Who are they trying to kid? I’m a bloody nuisance; I’m a customer with a query.
Then moments later - “We’re experiencing really high levels of calls, and your wait might be longer than usual.”
It can’t be - my wait is always too long. It’s like this because you (the target organisation, not you, dear reader) are inept and can’t work out how many sodding phones you need, along with call handlers, to run efficiently and effectively. You prefer to do it all on the cheap.
Some 20 minutes later and the monotonous electronic noises being passed off as music suddenly ends. When I’m forced to listen to this inane rubbish, there are times I could happily murder the first person who walks by. But I’m at home with Mrs B and her alone, so impulsive behaviour such as murdering her seems a little unfair. I try to stay calm.
She sees me holding the phone, slouched in a chair looking beleaguered. ‘Are you speaking to anyone?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m still trying to get through to a parallel universe. Perhaps my phone’s not up to it.’
Finally, the noises stop. It seems I’m getting through, but then there’s a ‘click’ and a pause. I’m transferred to an overseas destination. Now, I’m having to concentrate hard just to understand what’s being said to me.
I’m asked for my account number and date of birth. Why? I’ve already keyed in the bloody digits – all 16 of them. For the sake of progress, I answer the dismembered voice’s question. Then, the voice asks what my query is, and I say: ‘A bill payment.’
Did I know I can pay online, points out the voice.
No, I can’t.
Yes, you can. The voice is officiously adamant. Their script says I can, so I must be able to.
No, I can’t, I tell them. It’s not working. There’s a fault on the website.
They ignore this information—technical issues suggested by the website user are not important. I’m asked how much I’m paying. The balance, please. I provide my banking information. All is well. My money disappears instantly from my account. If only they could answer the bloody phone as efficiently as they can take money.
Thank you for your payment. Is there anything else I can help you with today?
No, thank you. Bye.
Two minutes later, I receive a text.
“Thank you for being a loyal customer. Please take a moment to rate your experience with us today. Click this link…”
Unbelievable.
‘Did you get through?’ asks Mrs B. I’m still running through a list of expletives that could precede the word “unbelievable”. I can instantly think of at least 10.
‘And don’t forget to do your blood pressure reading.’
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