Stage One: Naive Optimism
You dial the number with the confidence of someone who still believes in the fundamental goodness of British customer service. Perhaps this will be different. Perhaps they've fixed the system since last time. Perhaps that 'recently updated' automated menu will actually make sense.
You sweet, innocent fool.
Stage Two: Menu Confusion
"Press 1 for billing enquiries, press 2 for technical support, press 3 for new customers, press 4 for existing customers who aren't billing or technical but also aren't new, press 5 for complaints about our previous menu system, press 6 to hear this menu again because we know you've already forgotten what 3 was for."
You press 4, obviously. You are an existing customer with a straightforward query. This should be simple.
Stage Three: The First Transfer
"I'm sorry, you've reached the wrong department. Let me transfer you to someone who can help."
Click. Beep. Hold music.
The hold music is a tinny instrumental version of 'Girl from Ipanema' that sounds like it's being played through a Fisher-Price keyboard submerged in a bathtub. You begin to question your life choices.
Photo: Girl from Ipanema, via plakamnl.com
Stage Four: False Hope
"Hello, you're through to customer services, how can I—oh, I'm sorry, we don't deal with that here. You need to speak to our specialist team. Let me put you through."
Surely this is it. The specialist team. They'll know what they're doing. They have to. It's literally their job.
Stage Five: The Void
You've been on hold for seventeen minutes. The hold music has looped four times. You know every synthesised note of that cursed bossa nova. You've started humming along. This is how madness begins.
A cheerful recorded voice interrupts: "We're experiencing higher than normal call volumes. Your call is important to us. Please continue to hold."
Higher than normal? What's normal? A single phone call per fiscal quarter?
Stage Six: Bargaining with the Universe
You start making deals with cosmic forces. If someone answers in the next two minutes, you'll never complain about anything ever again. You'll be grateful for terrible service. You'll write positive reviews for companies that merely acknowledge your existence.
The universe, predictably, ignores your pathetic pleas.
Stage Seven: The Wrong Department Again
"Oh no, you definitely need to speak to our other department. This is customer services. You need customer support. They're completely different."
"What's the difference?"
"Customer services handles service issues. Customer support handles support issues."
"And my issue is?"
"Definitely a support issue. Let me transfer you."
Click. Beep. 'Girl from Ipanema' returns like a musical STD.
Stage Eight: The Automated Survey
Before you can speak to a human, you must first navigate an automated customer satisfaction survey about your experience so far. Rate your satisfaction from 1 to 5. How likely are you to recommend this holding experience to friends and family?
You consider rating it 5 stars purely for the absurdist comedy value.
Stage Nine: Technical Difficulties
The line goes dead. Not hung up. Not transferred. Just... gone. Into the digital ether. Your forty-three minutes of hold music purgatory, vanished.
You stare at your phone like it's personally betrayed you. Which, in a sense, it has.
Stage Ten: The Return Journey
You call back. The automated menu has mysteriously changed. Option 4 no longer exists. There's now an option 7 for "customers experiencing issues with our phone system," which feels like meta-commentary on the state of British infrastructure.
You press 7. It transfers you to option 1. Billing enquiries.
Stage Eleven: Acceptance
You've been on this journey for an hour and seventeen minutes. You've spoken to four different departments, none of whom could help. You've been transferred back to the original menu twice. You've heard 'Girl from Ipanema' so many times you're considering learning Portuguese.
This is your life now. This is what you do. You hold. You wait. You listen to elevator music that wouldn't be acceptable in an actual elevator.
Stage Twelve: Enlightenment
Finally, a human being answers. They listen to your query with the patience of a saint and the weariness of someone who's explained this exact thing 847 times today.
"Oh, you just needed to go to our website and click the blue button marked 'Sort This Out Yourself Because We've Given Up.'"
Of course. Of course there's a blue button. There's always a blue button.
You hang up, defeated but somehow cleansed. You have gazed into the abyss of British customer service and emerged, if not victorious, then at least with a newfound appreciation for human contact that doesn't involve hold music.
The website, naturally, is down for maintenance. The blue button will have to wait until tomorrow.
Somewhere in the distance, 'Girl from Ipanema' plays on.
