A ‘skin job’ broke into the Call Centre yesterday. A real-life customer – in the flesh – appeared at reception demanding to speak to a manager.
Brenda went into panic and insisted that I went down to deal with the situation as she was dealing with an important ‘HR matter’. Years of training had not prepared for such an event and I was trembling, but Brenda insisted that it would be, “… good for development.”
A woman in an M&S mackintosh was clutching a Morrisons carrier bag.
I had barely introduced myself before she launched herself at me, “Right I’ve had enough of dealing with bleedin’ monkeys; I need the organ-grinder.”
I was armed to the teeth with platitudes that work on the telephone; something told me that they weren’t going to work when I could feel the heat glowing from her cheeks. Eventually she calmed down enough to explain her complaint. Her owl-shaped cotton-bud dispenser was catching the buds in its beak as she pulled them out. I made vague promises and sent her away.
I got back to my desk to grind a few more organs.