For my last blog of the year I thought I'd share with you the "round robin" letter I placed inside our Christmas cards this year. The purpose of these things seems to be to boast about your kids and your achievements, but we've had a quiet year. So, I just made it up. I hope you enjoy it.
Happy Christmas from me and the family.
Christmas 2011
Dear Friends,
What a year we’ve had.
After winning the Nobel Prize, Annalie turned seventeen this year and took her driving test. We are very proud and happy to say her examiner is now out of hospital, and hopes are high that his breakdown will soon be just a memory. Two of the three elderly pedestrians who swerved their zimmer frames in to her car are now walking again. At school we’re delighted that Annalie is working really, really hard at getting to classes on time and she is now in the top five per cent of her year alphabetically.
Luisa is now fourteen and spent an afternoon signing books in Waterstones recently. Unfortunately they threw her out as it appears you need to ask permission first. She has started a singing career and performs weekly in Convent Garden – that’s the small back yard at the Holy Cross nunnery. The nuns’ chickens are now laying profusely, showing that Luisa has the Eggs Factor. She plays competitively for her school at Statues, otherwise known as Netball, and has earned the nickname “Beaujolais” from her team mates as she has matured in to a good whine.
Debbie is still working at shopping channel QVC and was head hunted this year by a household name retailer who said her image suited their business perfectly. After careful consideration Debbie turned the 99p Store down and now has her sights set higher; she is hoping for an offer from Poundland. Debbie has recently taken up Zumba classes and has earned the nickname Nijinski, not because she dances like the Russian ballet dancer but because she moves like a dead racehorse.
Paul spent a lot of time indoors this year, but after his release he travelled extensively, setting off airport security alarms with his brand new ankle bracelet. He very much appreciates Debbie and says a more vivacious, intelligent, beautiful carer he could not wish for. He has taken to social media and his ambition is to grow his number of Facebook friends, though he says four is apparently quite respectable.
Molly, our cat, did some stunt double work in the new Puss In Boots movie this year and, after putting on a bit of weight, is currently on loan to Edinburgh Zoo’s Panda enclosure. If you wish to make a donation to her food bill please contact them directly.
All the Coias wish you a very Happy Christmas and a Healthy 2012.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Torn
This time of year tests the cheerfulness of even the nicest shop assistant, forced to wear Santa hats and apologise to every crabby customer for the wait in line whilst also suffering again and again from listening to the same old background Christmas songs that have been on repeat play in store since July.
I’m amazed these people don’t let off steam every few minutes by putting on a Grinch mask and shouting “Rudolph is a drunk” or “Santa’s going to throw up on your carpet”.
With the High Street going crazy just now, these customer helpers are doing a great job and, if I’m in a store that has as feedback button, I’ll always give it a punch with a smile that says “Happy With The Service”.
But now this “service comment thing” is spreading everywhere. Call up any company with a query and you’ll find that Customer Service people have sneakily become the best emotional blackmailers in the world.
Yesterday I had a problem with my mobile ‘phone, so I called Orange. The service agent was very helpful and resolved my query but, just as I was thanking him, he said “you will receive a text asking to rate me for my help today. I hope you will give me full marks as that would help me a lot in return”. Of course I should have said something like, “I’ll be the judge of that”, but instead I summoned up all my reserves of courage and strength and meekly said “Of course. No problem.”
This is not the first time this has happened to me. In fact it’s the fourth time in just a couple of weeks.
We had a new gas boiler installed by British Gas and, as he left, the engineer told me I would receive a questionnaire asking how he had done. He informed me he would be most grateful if I gave him full marks as it affects his Christmas bonus. Again I said I would help out, but inwardly I began to wonder what the point of these things is. If all of us are asked to give top marks then it’s a bit redundant, isn’t it? Why don’t they save time and effort and just let the engineer fill it in himself?
We also bought a new car a few weeks ago and I must confess the dealer was very helpful and kept us informed throughout. “In the next few days you will get a call asking how we did”, he told me. “Can I presume you’ll give us five out of five?”. Frankly, you can assume whatever you want but I’m going to give you zero just for presuming I thought, but when the call came I rolled over and had my tummy tickled, then gave him five. I only hope he’s getting his Christmas bonus too.
Perhaps all this charity I’m dispensing means I don’t have to tip the bin men, the postman or the paper girl this year. I’ll just pop in to my local council, post office and newsagent and tell them I’m giving their staff five out of five, and no need to come round my house for a tip and, by the way, a very Happy Christmas to one and all. Think it might work?
Last week my technical problem of the week was with my internet provider so, one chat with a call centre in India later, I was back on track with my problem solved. “Please stay on the line Paul as you will be asked a question about my service” said my new Indian buddy. “I would appreciate you giving me full marks.” Again, I did exactly as he asked so I think I’ve managed, indirectly, to give a Christmas tip in the Far East. Happy Diwali to you all over there.
But enough is enough. I don’t mind this nonsense in December – good will to all mankind and all that – but come January the gloves are off. Anyone who asks for feedback is going to get it in a string of words last put together by a freezing docker hanging naked from a frozen drainpipe when his girlfriend’s husband came home unexpectedly. I’ve had enough. My new year resolution will be that I’m not going to be bullied any more. You want feedback mister, you’re going to get it, big time.
I do hope you enjoyed the blog this week. The guy who looks after my internet site will be calling you tomorrow to give me a rating out of five. I assume you’ll give me full marks? Thank you.
I’m amazed these people don’t let off steam every few minutes by putting on a Grinch mask and shouting “Rudolph is a drunk” or “Santa’s going to throw up on your carpet”.
With the High Street going crazy just now, these customer helpers are doing a great job and, if I’m in a store that has as feedback button, I’ll always give it a punch with a smile that says “Happy With The Service”.
But now this “service comment thing” is spreading everywhere. Call up any company with a query and you’ll find that Customer Service people have sneakily become the best emotional blackmailers in the world.
Yesterday I had a problem with my mobile ‘phone, so I called Orange. The service agent was very helpful and resolved my query but, just as I was thanking him, he said “you will receive a text asking to rate me for my help today. I hope you will give me full marks as that would help me a lot in return”. Of course I should have said something like, “I’ll be the judge of that”, but instead I summoned up all my reserves of courage and strength and meekly said “Of course. No problem.”
This is not the first time this has happened to me. In fact it’s the fourth time in just a couple of weeks.
We had a new gas boiler installed by British Gas and, as he left, the engineer told me I would receive a questionnaire asking how he had done. He informed me he would be most grateful if I gave him full marks as it affects his Christmas bonus. Again I said I would help out, but inwardly I began to wonder what the point of these things is. If all of us are asked to give top marks then it’s a bit redundant, isn’t it? Why don’t they save time and effort and just let the engineer fill it in himself?
We also bought a new car a few weeks ago and I must confess the dealer was very helpful and kept us informed throughout. “In the next few days you will get a call asking how we did”, he told me. “Can I presume you’ll give us five out of five?”. Frankly, you can assume whatever you want but I’m going to give you zero just for presuming I thought, but when the call came I rolled over and had my tummy tickled, then gave him five. I only hope he’s getting his Christmas bonus too.
Perhaps all this charity I’m dispensing means I don’t have to tip the bin men, the postman or the paper girl this year. I’ll just pop in to my local council, post office and newsagent and tell them I’m giving their staff five out of five, and no need to come round my house for a tip and, by the way, a very Happy Christmas to one and all. Think it might work?
Last week my technical problem of the week was with my internet provider so, one chat with a call centre in India later, I was back on track with my problem solved. “Please stay on the line Paul as you will be asked a question about my service” said my new Indian buddy. “I would appreciate you giving me full marks.” Again, I did exactly as he asked so I think I’ve managed, indirectly, to give a Christmas tip in the Far East. Happy Diwali to you all over there.
But enough is enough. I don’t mind this nonsense in December – good will to all mankind and all that – but come January the gloves are off. Anyone who asks for feedback is going to get it in a string of words last put together by a freezing docker hanging naked from a frozen drainpipe when his girlfriend’s husband came home unexpectedly. I’ve had enough. My new year resolution will be that I’m not going to be bullied any more. You want feedback mister, you’re going to get it, big time.
I do hope you enjoyed the blog this week. The guy who looks after my internet site will be calling you tomorrow to give me a rating out of five. I assume you’ll give me full marks? Thank you.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Deck The Halls
It was time to put up the Christmas tree in our house this weekend, a time for family fun, laughter and jollity. The reality, though, is that here it’s been a more stress filled time than when I stripped naked, covered myself in chocolate truffles, and ran through a weight watchers convention. Unlike that memorable occasion, as far as the tree goes this year I haven’t got it licked yet.
Here’s the problem. I’m fed up with the real, freshly cut, trees that demand watering each day and then, ungratefully, drop their needles everywhere so they attach themselves to your carpet, curtains, clothes and even feet. I’ve lost count of the number of times in past years that Debbie’s asked me to cut my toe nails only to find I have half a Norwegian Spruce sticking to my bedsheets.
So this year I made an executive decision. No more cheating the environment of oxygen by cutting down a tree that was once used as an emergency toilet on a ski slope in the Alps. No more getting ripped off by someone who sets up for two weeks in our local car park and then is gone when the branches droop like the shoulders of someone who misses out in the January sales. No more watering and sweeping, no more finding needles in the carpet for months after. No more squeezing the thing out of the front door come January only to find the branches pinging back and firing their missiles in my eye.
This year I decided to get an artificial tree. After all, if God had wanted us to have real foliage in our house Robinson Crusoe would have hosted a makeover series, not written a diary.
But, my God, what a drawn out saga it turned out to be. The problem is that our hallway, where the tree stands, is massive with a high ceiling, and we usually get a ten foot high tree. I tried at least fourteen or fifteen web sites and found that all had sold out, apart from those that wanted over five hundred pounds in payment. Surprisingly they seemed full of unsold stock, despite their very generous offer of free postage. I don’t want a decoration that’s worth more than my house thank you.
Eventually I found a twelve foot high tree in B&Q, paid two hundred and fifty hard earned pounds, lugged it to the car and got it home. Excitedly I unpacked the boxes and started putting it together, taking about an hour to fluff out the branches. I was so proud and it looked magnificent - and then the boss returned home! Debbie decided with one look that it was too big and demanded it was taken down and returned. So I spent Sunday dismantling the scaffolding and packing away the bits of plastic, then trying to squeeze them all back in the boxes. Like all things at Christmas, it seemed to have put on a lot of weight.
And now we’re back to square one.
We have a ten foot high natural tree, bought from the usual dodgy geezer down the road, that demands water like a thirsty liquid fetishist in the desert, and we also have our usual free gift of a new carpet of pine needles all over the hallway. As is usual at Christmas, Debbie’s started asking me to cut my toe nails again, and I’ve booked my appointment with the optometrist for my eye check up in January when I’ll fight to get the dead wood out of our front door and in to the caring hands of the binmen.
Know what? It feels like a traditional Christmas. But next year, to save disappointment, I’m ordering a proper sized fake tree in July.
Here’s the problem. I’m fed up with the real, freshly cut, trees that demand watering each day and then, ungratefully, drop their needles everywhere so they attach themselves to your carpet, curtains, clothes and even feet. I’ve lost count of the number of times in past years that Debbie’s asked me to cut my toe nails only to find I have half a Norwegian Spruce sticking to my bedsheets.
So this year I made an executive decision. No more cheating the environment of oxygen by cutting down a tree that was once used as an emergency toilet on a ski slope in the Alps. No more getting ripped off by someone who sets up for two weeks in our local car park and then is gone when the branches droop like the shoulders of someone who misses out in the January sales. No more watering and sweeping, no more finding needles in the carpet for months after. No more squeezing the thing out of the front door come January only to find the branches pinging back and firing their missiles in my eye.
This year I decided to get an artificial tree. After all, if God had wanted us to have real foliage in our house Robinson Crusoe would have hosted a makeover series, not written a diary.
But, my God, what a drawn out saga it turned out to be. The problem is that our hallway, where the tree stands, is massive with a high ceiling, and we usually get a ten foot high tree. I tried at least fourteen or fifteen web sites and found that all had sold out, apart from those that wanted over five hundred pounds in payment. Surprisingly they seemed full of unsold stock, despite their very generous offer of free postage. I don’t want a decoration that’s worth more than my house thank you.
Eventually I found a twelve foot high tree in B&Q, paid two hundred and fifty hard earned pounds, lugged it to the car and got it home. Excitedly I unpacked the boxes and started putting it together, taking about an hour to fluff out the branches. I was so proud and it looked magnificent - and then the boss returned home! Debbie decided with one look that it was too big and demanded it was taken down and returned. So I spent Sunday dismantling the scaffolding and packing away the bits of plastic, then trying to squeeze them all back in the boxes. Like all things at Christmas, it seemed to have put on a lot of weight.
And now we’re back to square one.
We have a ten foot high natural tree, bought from the usual dodgy geezer down the road, that demands water like a thirsty liquid fetishist in the desert, and we also have our usual free gift of a new carpet of pine needles all over the hallway. As is usual at Christmas, Debbie’s started asking me to cut my toe nails again, and I’ve booked my appointment with the optometrist for my eye check up in January when I’ll fight to get the dead wood out of our front door and in to the caring hands of the binmen.
Know what? It feels like a traditional Christmas. But next year, to save disappointment, I’m ordering a proper sized fake tree in July.
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