Apparently o2’s new ad campaign demonstrates that customers are its priority. That makes my laugh: as an o2 customer I feel the exact opposite. Their customer service folks are well trained and polite. Which is lovely, but spectacularly useless in resolving much.
I’ve had the same mobile number for more than a decade, so am really rather keen to keep it. A couple of year’s ago the queer fella bought me an iphone as a peace offering. Iphone’s can do many things, but sadly it didn’t prove to be up to saving our marriage.
Anyways I should have my own mobile account in my own name. Kindly, the queer fella rang o2 and asked them to transfer the account to me. They couldn’t. They suggested he gave notice and ported the number to my new account.
I thought about moving back to Orange, as in my experience their customer care is better than any other phone company I’ve been with (and I’ve been with a few). However, the absence of any Orange service in my home is a teeny bit of a turn off. So, I stuck with o2. I thought it’d make the changeover easier. Especially as customers are their priority ‘n all.
The changeover failed to happen. I made a large number of calls to o2. As did the the queer fella. Some of the calls dropped off just when I thought things would be fixed. To their irritation, I am sure, I kept calling back and gave the whole sorry story from scratch to a fair few of their reps. Which was only half as irritating as their ‘hold’ musak. Their best suggestion was for the queer fella and I to be in the same room and phone them together, then they MAY be able to sort it out. We are separated. We live in different cities. That was their best suggestion.
After a week of this farce, the queer fella got hold of someone at o2 with a bit of sense who broke the rules and phoned me whilst talking to him on another line. Simples people. Within 24 hours my old number ported through and miraculously worked. All was forgiven.
That was last month.
This morning, my new shiny iphone had no service. I did all the usual on/off stuff. Still nada. The phone shop in the high street repeated the on/off stuff and directed me to the o2 shop, a short drive away. They did the same stuff, without resolution. They offered a new sim card if I confirmed to customer service that I am who I am. Which is, a customer: their priority.
Inexplicably customer service said the sim card had been disconnected and my phone number was being ported elsewhere. But I pay by direct debit I say, like that makes any kind of any difference! So customers are a priority except when they want to use their phones.
Where has it been ported to? It wasn’t entirely clear. Who requested the port? And when? And why would someone do this?. They didn’t know but, they did say: there appears to have been some confusion with your account. Demonstrating once again my priority status.
I was inside an o2 shop so I didn’t get cut off and after less than half an hour of hold ‘musak’ they got me up and running again. Although the customer service guy wasn’t entirely sure how that happened and was as surprised as me when one last on/off thing worked.
Feel better now. My rant is over, but if you’re looking to port a number I’d suggest avoiding o2.
Saturday, 14 May 2011
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
Pain in the bum
I missed the first 30 seconds of Sunday’s Rugby tournament. So I missed Teengirl hitting the deck. The ambulance arrived before me so I was greeted by a bit of party and an entonox high in the back of the van. Sadly, for every giggle there was a bit of a scream.
The next five hours were spent, mainly waiting, in Watford General Hospital: a couple of hours in a corridor, a painful body board slide and a very silly incident with a high girl and a bedpan. In the absence of any other amusement I ate all the packed food. Well, she was nil by mouth and I was bored. There’s only so much amusement to be had from laughter mixed with tears. And there was quite a large quantity of food, designed for a long day of high energy on a rugby pitch. Don’t think sitting in an NHS chair counts, but what can I say? Time goes slower in a hospital than anywhere else on earth.
It wasn’t all dull though, we had Gollum in the next bay to keep us amused. I don’t suppose it was actually Gollum, but the ancient creature both looked and sounded like the real thing. In hindsight, it doesn’t take much to amuse a Teengirl mainlining laughing gas or a bored woman. And it wasn’t all time wasted: she revised for biology by applying her knowledge to blood pressure. Am hoping in the real exam the intermittent hysteria will be missing. Like Queen Victoria, the attending nurse looked the opposite to amused. Think the whole of Watford breathed a sigh of relief when proper pain relief was finally given and Teengirl shut up and fell asleep.
A couple of exams and x-rays later they said: 'Nothing broken. Take these pills and crutches and bugger off. It’s just a pain in the bum'. No really, it is a pain in the bum. Also known as Ischiogluteal something. A soft tissue injury – right where the hamstring joins the pelvis. That’s the bit that’s used when bending the knee, straightening the hip or when sitting. Sitting is a painful problem. Next week Teengirl has AS exams. Where a certain amount of sitting will, no doubt, be required.
So to the Physio today to speed up the heal. It was painful for Teengirl, and for me to watch her do a few simple exercises. In the absence of food in my bag I chewed my nails.
We’re back again on Friday for more torture. And a bit of hope that soon she’ll be able to sit.
The next five hours were spent, mainly waiting, in Watford General Hospital: a couple of hours in a corridor, a painful body board slide and a very silly incident with a high girl and a bedpan. In the absence of any other amusement I ate all the packed food. Well, she was nil by mouth and I was bored. There’s only so much amusement to be had from laughter mixed with tears. And there was quite a large quantity of food, designed for a long day of high energy on a rugby pitch. Don’t think sitting in an NHS chair counts, but what can I say? Time goes slower in a hospital than anywhere else on earth.
It wasn’t all dull though, we had Gollum in the next bay to keep us amused. I don’t suppose it was actually Gollum, but the ancient creature both looked and sounded like the real thing. In hindsight, it doesn’t take much to amuse a Teengirl mainlining laughing gas or a bored woman. And it wasn’t all time wasted: she revised for biology by applying her knowledge to blood pressure. Am hoping in the real exam the intermittent hysteria will be missing. Like Queen Victoria, the attending nurse looked the opposite to amused. Think the whole of Watford breathed a sigh of relief when proper pain relief was finally given and Teengirl shut up and fell asleep.
A couple of exams and x-rays later they said: 'Nothing broken. Take these pills and crutches and bugger off. It’s just a pain in the bum'. No really, it is a pain in the bum. Also known as Ischiogluteal something. A soft tissue injury – right where the hamstring joins the pelvis. That’s the bit that’s used when bending the knee, straightening the hip or when sitting. Sitting is a painful problem. Next week Teengirl has AS exams. Where a certain amount of sitting will, no doubt, be required.
So to the Physio today to speed up the heal. It was painful for Teengirl, and for me to watch her do a few simple exercises. In the absence of food in my bag I chewed my nails.
We’re back again on Friday for more torture. And a bit of hope that soon she’ll be able to sit.
Saturday, 7 May 2011
A Sporting Chance
Parenting is not an olympic sport. It can require olympic sized skill and stamina so perhaps it should be. Or does that stink a little too much of martydom? Which I’m avoiding this week. Like the sofa as a) I never get hold of the tv controls, b) the drone of either dustbin telly or teen drama does my head in and c) I tend to fall asleep as soon as I get the chance to sit down.
Sticking with the Olympics, apparently one in six mums failed to apply for the London Olympic ticket ballot because they were too busy looking after their children. That’s according to the P&G eggheads anyway. I didn’t apply either. Booking tickets was on my todo list for a while which probably puts it in the 50% of the list that should be crossed off as soon as written because about that proportion will never ever be achieved.
So I didn’t apply, partly because I'm a bit busy and partly because once my day was done on the very last booking day twitter and facebook told me not to bother. You’d think the geeks behind the website would know the last hours of the last day were going to be busy. And you’d think they’d know how annoying ticket websites are in general. They are geeks after all. I’ve only just recovered from the Take That ticket fandango and the last thing I want to do at the end of a long day is press refresh. Refresh. Refresh.
I’d like to go to the London Olympics. It’s a chance in a lifetime. And, they are only a stone’s throw from where we live. We’ve put up with the roadwork improvements long enough (only another year to go). Ok so the first night they went on sale none of the dustbin lids could agree on what they’d like to watch, but I don’t care. I’d happily watch any of it. Especially that curling business. That looks great. And I love a bit of ribbon twirling as much as the next one. Am resigned to the fact that the opening and closing ceremonies will probably look better on the telly. Except for the crowds. There’s a limit to how many we can fit on the sofa at any one time.
So find myself slightly cheered that P&G is giving away tickets to demonstrate its commitment to supporting mums and families. All you have to do is buy one of their brands for a chance to win tickets.
I’m not a hugely brand loyal type. And I don't know what products are P&G. I think they make Olay. That's one of those old fashioned face creams that is a must have for all beauty regimes, but frankly it’s too strongly associated with Granny for my liking. As opposed to knitting which is totally OK, granny is allowed to start some trends, but I don’t take my beauty hints from the over 80s. Yet.
I think P&G make lots of laundry product, but I’m not really prepared to muck about with those since I had to rewash our entire family’s holiday wardrobe less than 24 hours before departure due to an alergic reaction to my last change of powder. I’ve stuck with the same product for the past decade.
So all you have to do is buy a product. But I bet you then have to tear off a label, without tearing off the teeny tiny print on where you have to send the smallest bit of paper. Which will be thrown in the bottom of the bucketsized handbag where it will languish until after the next Olympic deadline. Should task the littleun. She is the most consciencous in our house. Whosoever fills out the form, gets to choose the event. Or do you get what you’re given when your hoping to get them free with the soap?
I should say despite the mentions, this blog is not actually sponsored by P&G. If it were I would say so. As bloggers do it with integrity. I’m not against being sponsored as clearly I’m not against payment. Have been thinking of signing up for that sort of thing but it probably requires form filling and a fair ole bit of refresh refresh refresh. And today, I’ve too much laundry.
Hey ho.
Sticking with the Olympics, apparently one in six mums failed to apply for the London Olympic ticket ballot because they were too busy looking after their children. That’s according to the P&G eggheads anyway. I didn’t apply either. Booking tickets was on my todo list for a while which probably puts it in the 50% of the list that should be crossed off as soon as written because about that proportion will never ever be achieved.
So I didn’t apply, partly because I'm a bit busy and partly because once my day was done on the very last booking day twitter and facebook told me not to bother. You’d think the geeks behind the website would know the last hours of the last day were going to be busy. And you’d think they’d know how annoying ticket websites are in general. They are geeks after all. I’ve only just recovered from the Take That ticket fandango and the last thing I want to do at the end of a long day is press refresh. Refresh. Refresh.
I’d like to go to the London Olympics. It’s a chance in a lifetime. And, they are only a stone’s throw from where we live. We’ve put up with the roadwork improvements long enough (only another year to go). Ok so the first night they went on sale none of the dustbin lids could agree on what they’d like to watch, but I don’t care. I’d happily watch any of it. Especially that curling business. That looks great. And I love a bit of ribbon twirling as much as the next one. Am resigned to the fact that the opening and closing ceremonies will probably look better on the telly. Except for the crowds. There’s a limit to how many we can fit on the sofa at any one time.
So find myself slightly cheered that P&G is giving away tickets to demonstrate its commitment to supporting mums and families. All you have to do is buy one of their brands for a chance to win tickets.
I’m not a hugely brand loyal type. And I don't know what products are P&G. I think they make Olay. That's one of those old fashioned face creams that is a must have for all beauty regimes, but frankly it’s too strongly associated with Granny for my liking. As opposed to knitting which is totally OK, granny is allowed to start some trends, but I don’t take my beauty hints from the over 80s. Yet.
I think P&G make lots of laundry product, but I’m not really prepared to muck about with those since I had to rewash our entire family’s holiday wardrobe less than 24 hours before departure due to an alergic reaction to my last change of powder. I’ve stuck with the same product for the past decade.
So all you have to do is buy a product. But I bet you then have to tear off a label, without tearing off the teeny tiny print on where you have to send the smallest bit of paper. Which will be thrown in the bottom of the bucketsized handbag where it will languish until after the next Olympic deadline. Should task the littleun. She is the most consciencous in our house. Whosoever fills out the form, gets to choose the event. Or do you get what you’re given when your hoping to get them free with the soap?
I should say despite the mentions, this blog is not actually sponsored by P&G. If it were I would say so. As bloggers do it with integrity. I’m not against being sponsored as clearly I’m not against payment. Have been thinking of signing up for that sort of thing but it probably requires form filling and a fair ole bit of refresh refresh refresh. And today, I’ve too much laundry.
Hey ho.
Monday, 2 May 2011
The long weekend
The garden is as dry as dust. Shall climb down from my cross and spend more time watering. Am bored of martyrdom now anyway. And the alliums are out - they always make me want to spend more time in the garden.
With the dustbin lids away for a couple of days I indulged in a little Royal Wedding coverage. Or rather a lot. I love a posh frock and a big hat. Though Posh’s own ensemble left me a little cold. The bride looked beautiful, the groom looked bald, and everyone was chirpy. So chirpy infact, Twitter crashed.
Was loving the fact that I had full control of the tv, with no interruptions. Bestmumchum popped over to avoid all the chat at her house. She talked over the wedding but I let her off as she came with a cup of hot frothy coffee. Noone does pomp like London. It was all bloody marvellous. If I was left with one lasting impression it is, without a doubt, that The Duchess, like me, has a supersis.
I didn’t waste the whole weekend stalking the royals: I met up with my forensic mate. We haven’t shopped together for years. I worried her taste was deteriorating as she pointed out some summer sandals. They looked like something Granny might wear. I need worry no more as she said she was actually looking for Granny.
The little-un started as an austringer's apprentice with Uncle Dolittle training her in the dark art of Falconry. I marvel at her calmness and practicality when in close proximity to a bird with large eyes and talons, and dead meat. Squeemish she ain't. I on the other hand, feet ill just looking at the kit. To my mind it ticks too many boxes on the potential serial killer list. Or is that just me?
The house clearance continues - in preparation for finding a buyer and moving. As a former hoarder, even I find it unbelievable just how much has accumulated under this roof. The charity shop has done well, as will the dump, when I get there.
Best of all: the ebay holiday fund is coming along nicely.
With the dustbin lids away for a couple of days I indulged in a little Royal Wedding coverage. Or rather a lot. I love a posh frock and a big hat. Though Posh’s own ensemble left me a little cold. The bride looked beautiful, the groom looked bald, and everyone was chirpy. So chirpy infact, Twitter crashed.
Was loving the fact that I had full control of the tv, with no interruptions. Bestmumchum popped over to avoid all the chat at her house. She talked over the wedding but I let her off as she came with a cup of hot frothy coffee. Noone does pomp like London. It was all bloody marvellous. If I was left with one lasting impression it is, without a doubt, that The Duchess, like me, has a supersis.
I didn’t waste the whole weekend stalking the royals: I met up with my forensic mate. We haven’t shopped together for years. I worried her taste was deteriorating as she pointed out some summer sandals. They looked like something Granny might wear. I need worry no more as she said she was actually looking for Granny.
The little-un started as an austringer's apprentice with Uncle Dolittle training her in the dark art of Falconry. I marvel at her calmness and practicality when in close proximity to a bird with large eyes and talons, and dead meat. Squeemish she ain't. I on the other hand, feet ill just looking at the kit. To my mind it ticks too many boxes on the potential serial killer list. Or is that just me?
The house clearance continues - in preparation for finding a buyer and moving. As a former hoarder, even I find it unbelievable just how much has accumulated under this roof. The charity shop has done well, as will the dump, when I get there.
Best of all: the ebay holiday fund is coming along nicely.
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