Customer service

I left my phone in the dressing-room last night, and I needed to check for voicemail today, about another job. So I rang my mobile number from the landline, pressed the star key, and entered the four-digit security code when prompted.

But I’d misremembered it. Bollocks. Tried again. Bollocks. I hadn’t needed to use this code for so long that I couldn’t remember it (yes, I know, I should write it down somewhere safe and private – noted for the future).

But, hey, they have customer service people, right? People whose professional raison d’être is to solve my klutzy self-inflicted problems and leave me with a rosy glow of well-being towards my fellow humans and the broad sunny uplands that technology will take us to. Or at least to give me back the information that I gave them when I registered my phone.

After the usual “If you’re losing the will to live, press 3″ hell, I got to talk to a human being. All the better, he had a lovely warm Scottish accent. He sounded like a nice guy, and I don’t doubt for a minute that he is. I’ll call him Andy (because that’s what he said his name was).

Andy: How can I help you?

Me: I’m trying to access my voicemail from a landline, because I don’t have my mobile with me, but I can’t remember my code number.

Andy: No problem, Mr Doherty, we’ll send you a new code.

Me: Great. Thanks. Oh, wait a minute – how will you send it to me?

Andy: I’m texting it to you now.

Me: To my mobile?

Andy: Yes.

Me: But I haven’t got my mobile. If I had my mobile, I wouldn’t need the code.

Andy: I’m sorry, that’s all I can do.

[The rest was just spluttering on my part].

So I’m heading for the theatre about three hours early just in case there’s a job-related voice message for me.

No hard feelings, Andy. You were doing your job.

But Vodafone: FUCK AWAY OFF!