As someone who can’t even watch a heated argument on television without hiding my face in my hands, complaining about bad service is my worst nightmare. I’ve never taken my food back in a restaurant and I if I accidentally forget to say “please” whilst asking Mary at Starbucks for a coffee, I feel guilty for days. So naturally, the discovery that Amazon had taken money out of my account for something I hadn’t ordered was less than ideal.
As I spent an hour on the phone, having to recant my email address to at least 5 different Amazon employees, something strange happened. I don’t know if it was the incredulous Dylan who seemed shocked that money had been taken from me when he couldn’t even find an account for an ‘email@example.com’ or the fact that I had to repeat this story to at least 5 different people just as delightful as him, but I got angry. For the first time ever, I took pleasure in complaining.
Our discussion went a little something like this:-
“I understand that working on a Saturday is less than peachy considering half of your friends are tweeting about drinking sangria at the beach, but please, please – and this is to all customer service representatives – please at least pretend to care about my problems. I know that £60 of my money means bugger all to you considering you get paid minimum wage and work in a call centre, but every time you tell me that you can’t see any money has been taken from my account, a piece of my soul dies.”
In the end I got a full refund and a sense of accomplishment in knowing that the gentleman who told me he’d help me as a “gesture of good will” still had another 6 hours left of his shift. Being bad never felt so good.