I dropped my phone again. Oddly every time I go to Catford with that phone I drop it, and every time I drop it I break the screen utterly. For the second time I’ve ended up buying a random brick in order to tide me over until I can afford to replace the screen. The first time it took me over 8 months before I could afford the £100 on a luxury screen fix, but thankfully my friend James stood me his spare on that occasion. This time, the two year contract that the nasty venal little shit at Vodafone bamboozled me into signing for one of the worst handsets in the history of the world is finally over in June.
I’m paying close to 40 quid a month for an HTC A9. It’s a terrible handset, designed to screensmash, and it has a huge fingerprint sensor (that I refuse to use) which is its only feature. I have no idea how I was so naive as to let the smiling damnéd villain in the shop persuade me that my monthly payment is even close to viable for that disposable piece of crap, especially considering I’ve been with Vodafone since they acquired cellnet so over 20 years without changing network. And I know that I would never have knowingly signed a two year contract. Someone is screwing me over here. My renewal date is, finally, in June. Someone fucked with me. Once again I understand too late the need for vigilance. Not everybody is kind.
And here am I thinking of going back to Vodafone as if it’s the only option, despite a catastrophically awful history with them, and my absolute certain knowledge that their customer service comprises of lovely pleasant bubbly helpless individuals in Alexandria who need to make sure they get 5 stars from the inevitable follow-up text, but who are given no information, no power, no help and no control. If they “escalate”, it’s pantomime and they’re just getting their mate to put on an important voice. Everyone is reading down a checklist and if your problem is not on the list then it’s not a real problem and they won’t send you to someone who can genuinely help. I give positive stars out of pity when I interact with them because it’s clear they’re in a sweatshop and desperate for the affirmation that might mean the difference between lunch and no lunch. They’re probably paid next to nothing. I try to be kind. But God, my history with Vodafone customer service – Tolstoy could write a book based on just the contents of the notes on my account. It got to the stage where I had to wait five minutes for the advisor to read enough of my history. Then they’d come back to me with nothing.
Vodafone, for me, are an unmitigated customer service disaster, and yet I keep coming back, like a battered husband. It’s because I know it’s worked in the past. I know I get service in my flat.
A dear friend of mine has been in love with a bully for years. I’m constantly advising her “he’ll never change. He’s too wrapped up in himself.” She has been constantly showing him her belly, believing she can teach kindness by example. Can a leopard change its spots? I don’t think so. But she never learnt. And nor have I. I’m I’m still with Vodafone.
And here’s me, reading Tarot, using stories to help people keep away from danger, whilst tithing my life blood monthly in order to feed a indifferent red monster. If only mobile phones hadn’t become so central to how we go about our business. I’m even writing this on the new brick. Which is taking a lot longer than it would otherwise and means I’m just going to let this ranty post slide, even if I’d normally think better of it and edit. Sod that. It’s past 1 and I’m working tomorrow. Random photo of the top hat I just found on my pillow. Then sleep, mumbling about naughty Vodafone.