Good and not-so-good customer service….

 

Increasingly companies are using technology as part of their customer service mix. Often, it feels like “lip service” rather than a genuine attempt at driving improvement, or genuine interest, or reward.

The London hotel I stay at every week, and have done so for 18 months now (and who shall remain nameless for now) send me a web survey after every stay which I complete diligently. But the bangers and mash still look like something the dog has thrown up, and I still have to ask for an iron. It is as if that responding to the survey should make me feel better. It doesn’t. But, an ironing board or an occasional gourmet sausage might!

Similarly, Virgin Trains periodically survey me, but their wifi still disappoints and “train rage” still ensues regularly as a result of the failure of their seat reservation system. But, at least they have now begun to automatically compensate me when trains run late….

But recently, I have experienced two extremes of customer relationship management technology being used – one which pleased; the other which amused.

I used to stay at the Rotterdam Hilton pretty much every week for six years, but that was 8 years ago. Back then it was very tired, with noisy rooms, and the food was awful. And it was in Rotterdam – Stoke with modern art architecture. Even back in the day they would attempt to placate me – I had Platinum status – by upgrading me to a slightly less tired and noisy room and a plethora of Hilton branded gifts, such as rubber ducks, pens and picture frames, which were difficult to shift even at a Wythenshawe car boot sale.

But that was 8 years ago. Imagine my surprise on returning to the hotel after such a long time and to see the transformation of the lobby following a recent refurb. It was as clean and shiny as a shiny clean thing.

Imagine my even greater surprise to be greeted at reception by one of the same easy-on-the-eye, bubbly receptionist from 8 years ago who warmly declared “welcome back – you haven’t changed!”

It was only a little lie, but one that made me smile and made me feel special. Imagine my even greater greater surprise to be told “this is your 75th stay in this hotel” (the 74th being 8 years ago) and we would like to upgrade you to the Presidential Suite. That made me smile more and feel more special.

Now, I have only ever been upgraded to a Presidential Suite once before, in the Taj Hotel in Cape Town. But, that was a case of mistaken identity, and I still wonder where the South African Vice President of a gold mine spent that evening. But, in Rotterdam, this was a genuine reward for loyalty.

The Presidential Suite was beautiful, immaculate, and spacious far beyond my needs and stacked with gifts of champagne, cakes, savouries, and a personalised towel (which now resides in a box marked “car boot sale” due to its Hilton branding. I just need a coincidence of a same-named Vice President of a South African gold mine visiting a Wythenshawe car boot sale, and I am genuinely quids in…..).

And, it didn’t stop there. At the bar I was treated as a special guest and the housekeeping staff were very forgiving when I couldn’t find the hairdryer in any of my myriad rooms and cupboards.

While I do like to think that, even after 8 years, I live long in the memory and can still catch the eye of an attractive hotel receptionist, I am aware that Hilton has systems which can track attendance. But this was technology well deployed and customer service at its absolute very best. Although, I did make the point that if 8 years ago, on my 74th visit to the hotel they had told me I was in for such a treat next time, then I may have been back somewhat sooner.

And, upon my return home I received an email from Waitrose, inviting me to take a web survey to tell them what I thought of the vegetables I had recently purchased. Really? “Upon getting my courgette home, I realised that it was a little too green…..”. “My moussaka would have been much better if I had used potatoes like mom used to do, rather than the aubergine I acquired……” “My purchase of sage, was in retrospect both unwise and inessential….”.

Seriously? Only when Waitrose allows me to add Cabernet Sauvignon to my personal picks will I truly feel rewarded for my loyalty.

Dudley

The loneliest place on the planet is a hotel restaurant when you are travelling solo. No matter how engrossed in your paperback, paperwork, or contents of your iPad you attempt to look, all of those in the restaurant look at you as if you are the saddest person in the world.

This is why room service was invented. This is why hotels can charge exorbitant service levels for delivering food they have cooked and prepared downstairs, upstairs.

Correction. The loneliest place on the planet is the Verve Bar and Grill of the De Vere Village Urban Resort, Dudley. For some reason the hotel thought it would be a good marketing technique to make you duck under some yellow tape such as you might find around a hole in the ground or an unexploded bomb, labelled “Caution. Enter at your own risk”. Witty. Not. But, I guess it helps manage the customer’s expectations around the quality of the food.

The restaurant smelled of beer and vinegar. It was still early, before seven (England were playing Poland in a World Cup qualifier later in the evening) and the restaurant was scattered with families (including screaming sprogs), the odd romantic couple (like a meal out at your local Village hotel is going to help you get your leg over…….) and the occasional other saddo like myself, away from home, traveling alone.

The experience would have been depressing enough on its own. But was made much worse for being in Dudley. I will put my following comments into context. I was born in Walsall. I lived in Birmingham. I worked in Wythenshawe. So, I have seen some sh*t holes in my time. But, Dudley is dull. Dudley is depressing.

Dudley is in the heart of the Black Country. This may have been an apt term at the height of the Industrial Revolution. Today, the Grey Country might be a better description. Especially at this time of the year and in this weather.

Dudley is infamous. Dudley is famous for some very strange things.

Dudley has been labelled the “Chaviest town in the Midlands” by chavtowns.com, beating both Kidderminster and Telford. The website states: “Stand by the main entrance (of Dudley bus station) and award one point to each person who looks vaguely normal (i.e. not shaven-headed, tattooed, bleached blond, adorned with Burberry and/or bling, not strangely bearded (GUILTY), any woman whose backside is less than the width of the bus shelter). You’ll not reach 10 points.

Dudley has been voted the ninth unhappiest town in the UK. I would have expected it to be closer to the top of that list until I realised that people who live like the people on Jeremy Kyle are generally happy living that way. Roll on benefit reform!

Dudley is famous for the discovery of the oldest ever condoms discovered in the remains of Dudley Castle and dating back to the English Civil War. At least this shows that the average 17th century Midland Royalist was more STD or unwanted-baby aware than the Jeremy Kyle generation.

During the 18th and 19th centuries Dudley was known as “the most unhealthy place in the country”. And, in July 1962, Dudley was the scene of some of Britain’s earliest race riots.

Probably the town’s high point was when it was credited with having Britain’s most modern zoo. But that was in 1934…..

The De Vere Village Hotel has blended in with its surroundings very well. The hotel is painted gun grey. The rooms are dark. Dudley is depressing.

Surreal

 

Most mornings, when I am winding my weary way down the M6 to the office at Walsall, I pass under a bridge. Invariably, there are five or six cows trudging gently across the bridge. I hasten to add that it is neither the bridge nor the cows in the photo, which should be considered as illustrative only. Even I am not foolish enough to attempt to photograph a herd of cows on a motorway bridge while doing seventy miles an hour (ahem) in the fast lane.

I must admit, I do think it is fairly surreal to see such a sight. It is something about the contrast between the gentle plodding of the cows and the speed of the cars below; the fact that the cows are up in the air. Strangely, they never seem to being led or ushered by anyone, neither farmer nor dog. It is as if they have decided to cross the bridge all of their own volition. I wonder where they’re going? I wonder what they’re thinking? Perhaps they just like cars……… 

 

Similarly, when I worked in Wythenshawe, I used to have to drive through the countryside, past the radio telescope at Jodrell Bank. I know it is quite old (1955) but it still looks so futuristic. The contrast between this giant (by UK standards at least), space age, technical, sci-fi dish looming over the gentle farmland is always quite striking.

Sophistication Reaches Walsall

Sophistication reaches Walsall…….but not as you might have expected.

Last week, one of the industrial units in the street where my office is located was raided by police and discovered to be a cannabis factory, cultivating possibly up to 2000 plants and worth £1 million.

 Sgt Carl Batson, from Walsall Police, said two men, believed to be Vietnamese nationals, had been arrested and were helping officers with their enquiries.

“This is the biggest discovery we have seen for some considerable time, if ever, before,” he said.“It is a major find for Walsall police.

“It is one of the most sophisticated cannabis factories we have come across and would have grown and grown.”

Walsall is beginning to make Wythenshawe look desirable…….. 😉

The Great Divide Part 2

I have been immensely proud of my country, Great Britain, over the last couple of weeks.

I think this is, in part at least, due to the fact that most of our politicians are on holiday rather than our TV screens. During the House of Commons recess the most bizarre political “news” story seems to have been some Tory think-tank’s bizarre advice that people in Liverpool should “emigrate” to London because the North West economy is unsustainable. I mean, come on! They don’t even speak the language. Think of the crime surge 😉

But largely my sense of pride is the result of the Olympics. Firstly, the excellent BBC coverage has meant that Bill Turnbull has been moved to some backwater on one of the Freeview channels, so that I have not had to endure him and his ginger banality first thing in the morning. Secondly, and most importantly, I have been hugely impressed with the performance of Team GB, currently lying in third in the overall medal table! They have done us proud and made us proud.

Most impressive has been the professionalism that the whole team has shown. The commitment. The drive. The desire to win! When I was watching the Olympics as a kid we were a team of well-meaning amateurs. Of course we had our heroes such as Coe, Ovett, Daley Thompson and the like, but athletics, and occasionally swimming aside, we were largely bit players in most sports. But look at us now. Heroes all.

John Major, be proud of your legacy! No not peace in Ireland or your extra-curriculas with Edwina Currie, but the National Lottery. The National Lottery funding for sport has turned us into a true sporting nation with the desire and ambition to win. We can feel pride in our nation again. And I do. While I am a little anxious about London’s ability to put on a show to rival Beijing in 2012, I am, nonetheless, looking forward to it already.

Incidentally, I also think that the BBC coverage on TV, radio and the net has been great – with the exception of Nicky Campbell on Radio 5. A couple of mornings ago he was asking Chinese people on the street how they felt about the injury to the great Chinese medal hope, Liu Xiang, while being hooked up to Shelagh (pronounced Sheila) Fogarty back in the UK. Nicky could not resist a little schoolboy attempt at a racist joke by asking a Chinese lady with heavily accented English to say “I love you Sheila”. She spoke it perfectly, no doubt much to Campbell’s chagrin as he clearly had hoped to elicit a giggle, expecting her to say “I ruv u Sheera” instead. Shame on you Mr Campbell.

But last night my British pride took a dent. I watched Channel 4’s Secret Millionaire. The programme followed multi-millionaire, Nick Leslau, to the most deprived part of the most deprived city in the UK – Possil and Milton in Glasgow. Now Nick proved himself to be a caring, generous, thoughtful individual. You could tell that he was moved. You could tell that he was changed. Indeed the ladies who ran the disability forum and the riding school for the disabled are saintly. But, what struck me hardest was the abject poverty of the town itself. Nick himself described it as something out of East Germany, but, I suspect that that would be doing East Germany a disservice. How do people live in a place such as this? It made Wythenshawe and Walsall look almost desirable. And, I think that the link between the poverty of the area, the crime, the drugs, and the disabilities and poor health of the inhabitants was plain to see.

There is something very wrong in a country as great as ours, with an economy as strong as ours, that we “allow” our own citizens to “live” in a place such as this. So, while I do not begrudge the funding for sports, I would like to think that maybe our holidaying politicians, especially certain Scottish politicians, might also have seen the programme and shared my opinion. Perhaps, on his return (however brief it might be), Mr Gordon Brown might find a little more money to help people such as in Possil and not just suggest that they all move to London!

I Blame Jeremy Kyle

I Blame Jeremy Kyle

Did you see “Pramface Babies” on Channel 4 last night? I was forced to miss Ashes To Ashes for this wonderful piece of ….well, it was hardly the epitome of investigative journalism or of drama-documentary; it was hardly the new “Cathy Come Home”. 

“Pramface” is a derogatory term used to refer to underage or young mothers on council estates. See the Urban Dictionary for some more “colourful” explanations. I have seen many a Pramface mom in my time in the Civic Centre of Shameless (see earlier postings). They are hardly inspiring role models for their children. Body-pierced, bleached, tattooed, blue veined, teenage girls pushing and dragging multi-coloured and multi-parented (“parented” is a bit of a misnomer of course – I mean that the children have different sires). They are uneducated, out of work, and foul mouthed. The fathers are, well, elsewhere. 

I read one article about the programme referring to the girls as being from a “working class” background. No they are not! “Working class” refers to a class that works. As my wise and wonderful better half, C, informed me, you are working class if your parent (for it could be either or both of mom and dad) came home from work dirty. Labourers, miners, factory workers and the like. But, there was little evidence of jobs amongst this little gaggle or their “partners”. Although, I notice that they were all able to afford state-of-the-art mobile phones. 

At least we seem to have lost the “Jason and Kylie” generation. Instead, we seem to have developed a fashion for two-syllable names, spelt phonetically. The girls in question were named “Laura”, “Linzi”, “Kerrie” and “Krista” and their “partners” included “Andy” and “Terry”. 

We never actually saw Terry. He was AWOL. Probably wetting the baby’s head with a two-litre bottle of cider and a spliff or a line or two somewhere. Or, maybe getting the baby’s name tattooed on his forehead. We did, however, get a brief insight into the caring nature of Terry with the introduction of the Christmas present that he had given to Laura – an American bulldog (nice) called “Gucci”  (aspirational at least) who was happily nesting in the baby’s carry cot. Charming. 

We did meet Linzi’s other half, Andy, who was described as being a “terrific dad”. Andy lives with his mom. Terrific. In fact, this was to be Linzi’s second child by Andy. Like the first it was “unexpected”. Unexpected? Well at least they didn’t use the term “accident” or “unplanned” but how on earth could it have been unexpected. Did they miss the pretty obvious lesson in biology of the first baby that they made! Indeed, I thought that it was not without a little irony that this programme was immediately followed by “Big Bang Theory”…..on so many levels. 

What is our society coming to? I blame Jeremy Kyle. Judge Alan Berg once described The Jeremy Kyle Show as trash which existed to “titillate bored members of the public with nothing better to do”. He went on to say “It seems to me that the purpose of this show is to effect a morbid and depressing display of dysfunctional people whose lives are in turmoil.” and added that it was “human bear-baiting”. 

These kids seem to have nothing better to do than stay at home (provided for by the state); spend their benefit on drink, smokes, and drugs; and, shag. They aspire only to have their problems resolved in full public glare on Jeremy Kyle or Trisha; the deluded aspire to become famous on X Factor or Big Brother Uncut. Maybe we should consider shutting down daytime TV, limiting the payment of child benefit to the first two kids, and making parenting classes compulsory. 

Rant over…..for now.

Illegitimi Non Carborundum

Illegitimi Non Carborundum 

Wednesday this week was cathartic. No, I do not mean that I spent a lot of time on the loo purging my bowels. No, I meant rather in the sense of being emotionally purging. For, this was the day that I left my employer of 20 years, having been put on gardening leave for the sin of finding employment with a competitor company. 

The day started much as any other work day. The alarm went off. I came downstairs and made a fuss of Maslow, the furball baby, and fed him. I showered. I donned suit. I grabbed my laptop bag, mobile and wallet, said goodbye to C, and headed for the door. 

It being October, and, therefore, the “grey period” weather-wise for the North West of England (it lasts from about September through May!) and it was minus 2 degrees, with a thick layer of ice (or rather frozen dirt – the car needs a wash) on the windscreen. Having de-iced, I wound my way through the gloom and not-so-leafy (it’s Autumn) lanes of Cheshire, to the office in Shameless (see earlier posting) where I have been based for the last fourteen years. 

At the weekend I had signed a new contract of employment with a new company, to start in December. This was a huge, huge, huge, huge (it was huge!) relief as I am being made redundant and due to leave my present company at the end of November. I informed my boss on Monday and on Tuesday got the call to say I was being sent home on paid leave. This was not as dramatic as it may have been. I was not under any immediate suspicion of having stolen the company’s crown jewels, commercial secrets, customer database and intellectual property. At least I don’t think that I was. At least my boss said that I wasn’t. In any case, I was not frog-marched from the building carrying my wife’s photo and a potted plant, flanked by burly security guards.

No, it was a lot more civilised than that. Thankfully. On Wednesday morning I cleared my desk. It has never been so tidy. I cleared my half of the cupboard which I shared with a colleague. I cleared my pedestal drawers. I threw away all of the absolutely essential files and folders that I had been hoarding over the years, filling one of the huge blue, plastic, recycling bins. 

I was left with very little to show for my twenty years of dedicated service – an Oxford Gem dictionary, a calculator, a photograph of my wife, a couple of books on management style and “The Business Skills of Adolph Hitler and Gerald Ratner” and the like. Just one small bag and a single trip to the car was enough to see me moved out. Moved on. Expunged. 

I cleaned out my email and set my final “Out of Office“ message. I undiverted my desk phone, and took my final supper, my very last meal with the Ladies Who Lunch (see previous posting). It was quite emotional. Not because of the food, but the finality and suddenness of the act of farewell. The girls were on good form and trying to buoy me along with the odd joke, the occasional reminiscence, and the latest from the X-Factor. But, there was a sincere affection, both ways, in the hug and peck on cheek as we parted outside of Shameless’ bingo hall. I will miss those girls. 

And so, I sent a final farewell-email to my closest colleagues and work friends, before packing up my PC and handing over my laptop. I had a lovely kiss and a cuddle with the girls in the office (thus discovering how Vanessa got her stripper name on Facebook.com), and handed my security badge in at reception. 

And there I was gone. I drove home through the gloom with a tear in my eye and a feeling of……..deflation, anti-climax, and, wondering what I will do with myself for the next five weeks. I would like to thank all of those former-colleagues that have sent me emails and kind thoughts. Please do stay in touch. I will miss you all. And, for those of you who haven’t sent emails or kind thoughts…….shame on you! I wish you all good luck, success, health and happiness. And, to all, but especially my Ladies Who Lunch, remember the motto: illegitimi non carborundum!   

Ladies Who Lunch

Since I have worked in Shameless (see earlier entries), in a plane-proof building near Manchester Airport, I have always shared my lunchtime with an ever-evolving group of ladies of a certain age. My ladies who lunch.

As an aside, the fact that the office was supposedly “plane-proof” was quite reassuring when I first moved up from London all those many years ago. For about five minutes. The building is on the flight path. The landing path in fact. And, in the event of a crash it would be on the crash path. And, I was working on the third floor. The top floor. The floor over which all the planes skimmed on their way into land. It was a bit disconcerting and, therefore, somewhat reassuring to hear the office described as “plane-proof”. Until it was explained to me exactly what that phrase meant.

In the old days, before the onset of outsourcing, and off-shoring, the Shameless office used to house the company mainframe systems (they are now in Prague and Bangalore). The systems were in the basement. Underground. In the event of an aircraft crashing onto the roof of the building, it is designed to collapse in on itself to form a protective layer of rubble, debris, and, presumably, dead employees over the mainframes so that they could carry on working without interruption. Even during the recovery of the bodies. So, not so reassuring after all.

Incidentally, and as another aside, the company’s Danish headquarters, in Copenhagen, used to be Nazi headquarters during the Second World War. Not out of choice you understand. In any case, as Nazi headquarters it was an obvious target for Allied bombing raids. Those canny (this being the mildest word that I could have used, believe me) Germans knew this of course and decided to protect themselves by letting it be known that Allied Prisoners of War were housed in the building’s upper storeys. A latter-day human shield. I am glad to report, however, that us even-cannier Brits responded by developing a new type of bombing attack (using the Mosquito bomber) which enabled buildings to be struck from the side in such a way that the upper storeys would collapse down, relatively intact. Hmmnn. Risky, but apparently it did work.

Anyhow, the ladies that I have lunched with over the years (though they will have called it “dinner”, being good northern lasses) have been a frequent source of inspiration, sometimes frustration, often information, and, always, entertainment. Sharing lunch breaks with them is like living through an episode of Loose Women on HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy). Most are good Manchester stock, living fairly close to Shameless. Fairly close to where they were born, went to school, got married, had kids, and worked. Most have worked for the company for a number of years. Woman and child. Child and mother. A number of years brutally interrupted when they were outsourced for three years before being insourced back following the collapse of the outsource relationship. My advice would be to avoid EDS like the plague.

I have always respected these ladies. They are all doers. They come to work. They do their jobs, diligently. They go home. They take their pay. And, they get on with their lives outside of work. They have a job rather than a career, because they have other things in their lives that are more important to them. Family. Kids. Elderly relatives to care for. Pets. Hobbies. Lives.

Lunchtimes have always been entertaining. Not least because of the food, which is, frankly, appalling. Fridays is always battered fish or breaded fish, chips, mushy peas or garden peas and gravy. Gravy! With battered fish? Is it a northern thing? Spotted dick. Manchester Tart (it is a dessert). Bland salad options. Boiled liver. And “vegetarian chilli con carne” (con carne means with meat!). Chips, chips and more chips. Well at least it is free. But most of the entertainment has come from these amazing characters themselves.

“Riz”, a miniscule, pocket-sized bundle of humour and inner strength. A single-mom. A traditionally-attired Muslim, with a broad Glaswegian accent and an even bigger heart. This lady is indomitable. She survived a violent husband, sleeping in a single room with her child, with drug dealers for neighbours. She never missed a day’s work and managed to make a new life for herself back in Glasgow, where I understand she and her son are now thriving. She never stopped smiling. She never stopped helping those around her.

“Julie B”, who started in the mailroom. There is almost a mythology around that clique of people who started in the mailroom. I suspect that there was something quite suspicious about what they put in the mailroom tea. Anyhow, “Julie B” started in the mailroom about 35 years ago and I suspect that is where she developed her wonderful cynicism and particular view of the world. The spectacles that “Julie B” wears are not exactly rose-tinted for sure. Again, “Julie B” is a survivor who over the years has tended to sick parents, neighbours and cared for her siblings. “Julie B” has a story about everything and the ambition to share them all with you. Whatever you have done, “Julie B” knows someone who has done it earlier, bigger, better, and more often. That someone is, more often than not her brother, upon who she dotes. If you have an illness or have been the victim of bad luck, then “Julie B” will know someone who has had it worse and is pleased to tell you how bad things could still get. “Julie B” also has a huge heart and a wonderful sense of humour. She is totally self-effacing and would do anything for you.

“Fiona” is the youngster on the block. She has been with the group for almost as long as I have. She has the art of smoking down to a tee. She can complete her cigarette in the exact time that it takes to walk from the office to the canteen (they would like us to call it a restaurant but that is a bit too grandiose). Again, “Fiona” has a heart of gold and, for many years has brought up her (ex) boyfriend’s young child in very difficult circumstances. She has a certain innocence and I delight in making her blush. So, it maybe was a mistake on her part to let me know that she recently got locked in the bedroom after a night of passion with her new feller. Of course, I was totally discreet and haven’t told a soul….

“Kath”, cat-hater with her “senior moments”, hot flushes, amazing shopping and party tips. Let me tell you, it isn’t a true party unless “Kath” is there with her musical cake slice from the Pound Shop; “Susan” with her filthy sense of humour, “interesting” home life, amazing hobbies, and crap cars; “Anita” with her belligerence and self-confessed Alzheimer’s; the two “Pauline”s……..there are far too many to detail here. The group has changed over the years as people have moved jobs or left the company or gone to circumnavigate the globe in a yacht. Please do not be offended if I haven’t mentioned you here. And, please don’t be offended if I have. You will all be in the book if it ever gets published, unless you bribe or blackmail me that is.

As I prepare to leave the company myself, and as I am in the office less and less I do not have the same opportunity to share their company, I realise that I will miss them all very much. Thank you ladies. Thank you all. You have been from time to time my informants, my confidantes, my counsellors, and my friends. You have kept me going through the tough times. You have made me laugh. And, you have inspired me. I wish you and yours good luck and every happiness. You deserve it.

Anyone for lunch?

 

  

 

 

 

 

  

It Rains Up North!

It rains up North. It rains in Manchester. It rains a lot. It rains all of the time. Even in the summer. Both weeks…..

I remember one typical September day in the North West of England….it was raining. Despite the fact that I was working in an office with no windows to the outside world (Dilbert would feel very at home in my cubicle), I could tell it was raining by the constant drumming, machine-gunning, against the corrugated, opaque plastic of the skylights that the Company had kindly installed in the ceiling in a vain attempt at preventing the onset of cabin fever, claustrophobia, and, a bunker mentality. They seem to like their silos where I work. It rained all day. Not your soft, drizzly, damp southern-Jessie rain but your true north western, flat capped, clog-footed, wet, monsoon kind of rain.This was bloody hard rain. It is not a coincidence that the Lake District is where it is.

And so, come 5.30pm, when it was time to leave the bunker, I was feeling pretty chuffed with myself that I was parked in the multi-storey which was attached to the office and, therefore, did not need to venture outside to retrieve my car. About half of the office have to use the rented space in the multi-storey car park across the street, in the Civic Centre, in downtown Shameless (see earlier posting: “Not a Nice Place to Live”). Not only does this mean them risking life and limb from muggers, from the stray bullets of drive-by shootings between rival drug dealers, from the cross-fire from armed hold-ups of Securicor vans or the local bingo haunts, or, risk rabies from many of the stray dogs that patrol the streets, or disease ridden pigeons, or just bodily contact with some of the locals, but, it also means that when it rains you get wet. But not me. Not today.

It was dark outside. Real dark. Kind of “end-of-the-world”, “Jesus on the cross” biblical, epic kind of dark. But I did not care, me and the silver dream machine set off for home with the xenon headlights bright, the aircon set to 20 degrees C, Norah Jones on the CD player and in my head, and, the windscreen wipers on maximum. The silver dream machine was my company car – my Audi TT 156 bhp; manhood on wheels. This was my present to self upon being promoted to an “executive” managerial level which qualified for such a perk. Some would say that, apart from my George Clooney-esque salt ‘n pepper hair and beard, the TT was the first visible, outward evidence of the onset of middle age. And, the TT was also my present to the Tax Man – you get taxed through the nose!

The environs of Shameless were strangely, eerily quiet. Just the odd denim miniskirt huddling in a bus stop, legs long, scrawny, pale and blue-veined. The occasional shell suit and baseball cap were sheltering under a soggy horse chestnut to keep his cigarettes dry and lit, his pit-bull straining at a studded leash, as he watched the girl at the bus stop. The weather was so bad it was even keeping the drug dealers, muggers and vandals off the streets. And so, Norah and I quietly joined the car train that wound its weary way through Styal, past the women’s prison, and into the suburban Cheshire sprawl which is Wilmslow.

The puddles were joining up. The roads were quite waterlogged in places, no doubt due to the fact that we were clearly experiencing the wrong kind of water for our gutters and road drainage. But, what the hell, I amused myself a little by “accidentally” driving a little too fast through some of the puddles and splashing the occasional Yuppie on his way to or from one of the many wine bars: 5 points for Armani, 8 points for a Manchester United player (they all live here or hereabouts)…….you know the kind of thing.

I stopped off at Sainsburys (this was before the arrival of Waitrose!) for essential provisions – two bottles of Argentinean Merlot – and was very glad to find that Sainsburys had staff armed with golf umbrellas to shelter weary and wary shoppers between their cars and the store. They were like a couple of punka wallahs attending to dignitaries of the Raj in the middle of a monsoon. So Cheshire!

And so, Norah and I set off from Wilmslow down the country roads on the way home. These roads are windy and uneven and there was a lot of water in a lot of places. There was lots of spray and lots of cars. Clearly most of these cars were driven by city folk that had never been to the countryside before, or they had just left a very expensive carwash, because they were driving very slowly, very carefully, and manoeuvring to avoid the biggest of the puddles. Myself, I ploughed a direct furrow. Straight on through. Had these people not heard of Quattro power distribution, four-wheel drive, ABS 5.3 and electronic brake distribution?!?

It was about this time that my mobile phone rang. Of course, I was handsfree! It was my wife, sounding slightly alarmed, “DJ (a little nickname) where are you? The house is about to flood! Get home quick!” And so I did.

The closer I got to home, the heavier the rain came down , the darker the skies became, and the deeper the surface water on the roads had settled. Once home I turned into the communal car park. It was flooded. The one central drain – a mere soak-away into a neighbouring farm’s field – had given up its Canute-like battle and the car park was under a good inch or so of water and rising right up to the garage doors. The neighbours had all beaten me home and had parked raggedly around the edges in an attempt to avoid the water, leaving me no choice but to park in it. And so, I clutched my computer bag, my Sainsburys carrier bag and ventured out. I paddled through the car park. It was just at this point that I discovered I had a hole in the sole of my left shoe and that the trouser bottoms on a Rochas of Paris suit act as an excellent sponge. Bugger!

I waded through the car park to find a small river where once the front drive used to be. Apparently the small drain in front of the house that also led to a soak-away in the farmer’s field had also given up the ghost and the water was lapping at the small step by the front door. Which is where I found my wife, in a state of panic, declaring that she had phoned the emergency flood numbers and the local council but that they had been inundated (ha!) with calls in the last half hour and could not guarantee that they could get sandbags to us this evening and we had a good two hours of solid rain ahead and that the water had risen at least two inches in just the last half hour and what was I going to do about it…..before pausing for breath!! Welcome home.

And so I changed out of the Company uniform and into gortex and jeans. I waded back through the car park to the garage to retrieve our wellies (his and hers Hunters don’t you know) and to put anything vulnerable to water above the likely plimsoll line and began to improvise…….And so, 4 bumper bags of Focus Do-It-All’s best bark chippings became our sandbag defence outside the front step. The hallway was stripped bare as we rescued all furniture to higher ground. Towels, dust sheets, and, would you believe it, a futon mattress (only in Cheshire….) formed a rudimentary flood defence barrier behind the front door and at the foot of the stairs.

And so, behind our barricade we stood and watched the rain. We watched the water, rising, slowly, ever closer towards our defence of bark chippings and a pair of old curtains. We worried, and our thoughts turned to the neighbours. We phoned around to find them all safe behind their higher-than-ours front steps. Our predicament caused some amusement and so “J” (a former ex of Chris Evans), her hubby “D” (the Olympic athlete), and so-cute baby “N” came round to gloat. They were protected from the elements by head-to-foot Dry as A Bone, Burberry and a fluffy pink outfit complete with rabbit ears (that would be “N”) and helped us to down the best part of the two bottles of Argentinean red I had had the foresight to purchase on the way home.

As promised, it did rain solidly for the next couple of hours. It rained long after the neighbours had retired to their own, safe, dry abode to put the baby to bed. It rained while we partook of a very nice pasta dish that my wife had rustled up. It rained all through East Enders and the new BBC drama about a serial killer. And all through this time the water rose and began to lap at the Focus bags…………..and then the rain stopped.

And then, as quickly as it had come, the water level began to descend. And soon we could see the stone flags beneath the step. And soon we could see the drive where once a river had been. And soon we could see the edge of the lawn. OK, the car park still resembled a small boating pond but we were safe. We had, unlike Canute, resisted the tide. The water had gone.

And just then, the council man with the sandbags turned up…………slightly miffed that he had been driving around in darkest hill-billy Cheshire in search of our house only to find a rather sheepish couple of city dwellers, the worse for a couple of bottles of red, watching TV and snug with their central heating. And so to bed.

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Refugees and Other Undesirables

Wythenshawe

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Refugees and Undesirables

Refugees and Undesirables

I remember one strange weekend. We cleared out the garage on Saturday, which involved going backwards and forwards to the local dump several times. What we did not throw away was set a-side for a car boot sale (typically English phenomenon methinks).

So we were up at the crack of dawn (6am) on Sunday to make our way to the car boot sale with all kinds of stuff that was just taking up space in the garage – old books, old PC games, old ornaments, old mirrors, 3 old lawn mowers (yes 3), etc, etc. You get the drift.

The sale was in a massive field in a place called Alderley Edge, which is very, very affluent. It was very popular and there were long queues on the very rich, expensive, extremely suburban street leading to the farm where the sale was being held. The local inhabitants must really have loved having those who clear their own garages (as opposed to paying someone to do it for them), and, the great unwashed, needy and desperate “parked” outside their mansions while queuing to get on the field so early on Sunday. Many a curtain was twitching, and, all security gates remained firmly shut.

We got there about 7.15 am and it was like being dropped into a refugee camp in some Asian former Soviet Republic. It looked a little like the illegal arms sale that James Bond ruffed up in Die Another Day. There were THOUSANDS of cars on this muddy field and all kinds of wares on display.

As well as people having a good clear out like ourselves, there were others selling knocked-off goods or counterfeits, semi-legal and illegal traders of all kinds. But, the buyers were mostly dirt poor. They mostly consisted of the inhabitants of Shameless (see earlier posting “Not Nice Place To Live”) who had bussed in (or stolen cars) looking for cheap stuff of quality. These were the unfortunate ones mixing with the dregs of society – skeletal blokes clearly stoned and hung over and the ugliest, most frightening women in the world.

They had bad skin, bad hair, bad makeup and bad attitudes and had squeezed rolls of fat into all different kinds of bad clothes. They stood there with cigarettes dangling from puffy lips and bad language spilling from their mouths as they pushed their ugly, obese and badly behaved kids around in buggies.

Apart from these, there were two distinct groups of asylum seekers – those from Eastern Europe (Kosovo and the like) with shaven heads (and that was the women) and earrings (the men) wearing shell-suits and other ripped off designer labels looking for cheap counterfeits. And, there were the dirt-poor Asian asylum seekers in their full regalia looking as if they had just escaped a Taleban death squad. The difference was that these people seemed to be desperate for things that they could use to work with (old tools, etc), or to better their life (an English dictionary, a toy for a child).

They were polite, despite having little English, respectful, and grateful for anything you could give them. But they were SO poor – they often could not even afford to buy things for 50p that were probably worth £20 to £30. You just felt like giving the stuff away to them. And so we did.

We left at 13.15, with just a few items left, feeling very grateful for our own very different lives. The things we brought back with us probably showed the difference in our existences – who needs PC games if you don’t own a PC; who needs a wine rack if you don’t drink or only drink cheap cider, sherry or vodka……