A friend was buying event tickets online. She typed in her credit card number and all of the required information and received the following response on the screen:
Your transaction could not be completed because of Reason #2.
Who designs these things, anyway?
I know quite a number of technology people with strong opinions about Microsoft and its products. Usually, not too positive ones. That does not prevent most of those people continue to use Microsoft products all the time, especially seeing how PC software have always been easier and cheaper to come by as opposed to, say, software for Macs.
Me, I never had to develop software on Microsoft platforms during my career and I never had much of a problem with my home PCs either, so I am a reasonably content PC person, always amused with anti-PC exaggerations in the mostly entertaining John Hodgman/Justin Long commercials.
I am also a late adopter who has never ever upgraded an operating system on a home PC. Moore’s Law in hand, I simply get better hardware once every few years, and use whatever comes pre-installed on it, which is more likely than not at the Service Pack 2 level by that time, meaning that all of the initial most annoying problems have been resolved already.
My last PC purchases until recently have been made before our move to England in pre-Vista days, so I have been happily running XP on all home devices. But I decided to renew almost all of the family home computers upon settling down back in the US. Before Windows 7 came out, so that my late-adopter bona fides were not impacted. Having never heard a single good thing about Vista, I made sure that my own new PC had XP installed on top of Vista installation. But for the new computers for kids, I did not bother with such specifics and ordered standard-configuration devices that came with Vista pre-installed.
One of those PCs came with an “invitation” for a free upgrade to then soon-to-be-released Windows 7. I misplaced that leaflet originally, but then came across it a couple of weeks ago. Late adopter or not, a free upgrade is a free upgrade. The information on the leaflet specified that I would be ordering an upgrade disk rather than doing any sort of on-the-spot installation, so I figured I’d get the disk while I was still inside the eligible time period and then decide whether to use it on some computer later.
I go to the online ordering site, type in the upgrade code from the leaflet, and learn that I am entitled to an upgrade from Vista Business Premium edition. Oops! The Vista installations that I have in the house are all Home Premium. The accompanying note on the website instructs me to be absolutely sure that I am ordering the correct upgrade, else it will not work.
I click through a couple of pages to find the appropriate support number, pick up the phone and within a few seconds speak to an “upgrade project team” member who introduces himself as John. After hearing my overview of the problem, he profusely apologizes for a mix-up and assures me that it is easily fixed. All he needs is the supporting documentation (literally, a scan of my upgrade leaflet and a print-screen of the operating system info from the PC in question) and my shipping address, so that they can order the proper upgrade version for me directly. Fifteen minutes later, I have the necessary jpegs which I send on to the e-mail provided to me over the phone.
Within 30 minutes, I get an email response from someone named Mario asking me for additional information needed to place the order. Apparently, my daytime phone number is necessary. I immediately respond. Within another hour or so, I get another email from someone named Malik that all of my information was received and sent up to the “processing department”. As soon as they review and approve, my order would be placed.
Next day, I receive an email from someone whose name I do not recall notifying me that my order has been placed. In less than 24 hours, yet another email comes, of seemingly automated nature, advising me that my order has been shipped and providing the tracking number.
A few days later, I get the package in the mail, with the Windows 7 Home Premium upgrade disk in it.
I’ve seen some efficient product-replacement issue resolutions (and even blogged about something of the kind), but this was right up there on the Great Service plane. Quite unexpected, to be sure. Props to Microsoft.
Now, do I really want to futz around with an almost brand-new PC that probably can safely run Vista for several years, given that its primary user – a certain 9-year-old – is only interested in internet and streaming video…
Some two years ago, I wrote a cost comparison entry for basic UK-vs-US costs. It was based on generalizations rather than some hard data, but I hope it was useful for someone.
Having now been back in the States for a few months, I am probably due an updated treatise on the subject. And, predictably, I find it hard to work up any sort of enthusiasm for an exercise of this kind. Fortunately, my lovely wife has come to my rescue, at least partially. She made quite a few references in these past months that she finds some foodstuff costs to be higher in the US compared to what we knew in the UK, and she graciously agreed to perform a sort of analysis, which I now present for my audience.
A few important notes. One, the comparison is between suburban New Jersey (Middlesex/Monmouth counties, to be precise) and outer edges of Greater London (Lewisham/Greenwich boroughs); it is more than likely than the prices will be different the closer you get to Central London or if you put New York City into the equation. Two, the exchange rate has been holding relatively steady between $1.6-1.7 per pound sterling; I am going to use 1.7 for the conversion. Three, as noted in comments to that old post, UK local salaries are generally numerically lower than respective US ones, which means that proportional outlay for any given product may actually be higher even when the absolute cost is lower; for the purposes of this highly scientific study, we will imagine ourselves receiving a US-based salary, as if we were on an expat package.
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So I had 11 direct inquiries about our timeshare week that we put up for donation a while ago. I turned everybody away and, lately, directed them to contact the sales department of the closing company dealing with my donation.
The closing company did not make any contacts with me during roughly six months since their original “we are looking to serve you in a timely and efficient manner” greeting. I periodically checked the online status of my file, which even suggested that a buyer was identified and the transaction was proceeding.
I finally decided to write to the closing company with a not-exactly-complaint that six months’ time was a couple of months over what they initially suggested as the reasonable length of the process. The response I received cordially informed me that the prospective buyer pulled out for one reason or another and that no other buyers could be identified. Therefore, my file was closed and the donation cancelled. “But thank you for your interest”, the email concluded.
I wrote back a snarky and annoyed response, pointing out that I missed on 11 opportunities to sell the week, while the inept “sales department” could not find more than one buyer; and that “timely and efficient manner” does not mean what the Resort Closings, Inc., thinks it means. I felt better as one could only feel after dispensing a brilliant tongue-lashing…
I asked the most recent prospective direct buyer whether she was interested in going ahead with the purchase. She said she was very interested and asked me a ton of questions. I answered some, but for most, I pointed her to a website with pretty good FAQs on the process.
She responded today that she decided to look for a timeshare in another part of Florida instead. She then proceeded to list various items that I “need to have ready” when a prospective buyer contacts me. I don’t recall asking for an advice, but that’s my net gain from this transaction so far.
I suppose I have nothing to lose by contacting all of those other people whom I have turned away to see if they may still be interested. If not, I’ll try donating again through a different channel.
Epic fail! Deserving, too1.
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1 As Natasha keeps reminding me, she was not too enthusiastic about getting into interval ownership in the first place. It was I who felt that buying a timeshare week was a grand idea back in 1995.
In the first few months upon our arrival in England, I occasionally ranted about what I perceived as inadequate customer service prevalent in British business. (Various older articles filed under Customerography make mention of our aggravating experiences in that regard; one of the best examples was in this article.)
With time, we sort of gotten used to how Brits approach customer service. Or, maybe, just stopped finding ourselves in circumstances that bothered us. So, when a situation of the kind flares up, it feels all the more exceptional and worthy of an angry – or, rather, amused – rant these days. Except that the latest example involves not a British but an American company, USAirways, and its customer service.
This is a fairly long story with quite a bit of stage-setting, so I’m hiding it below the cut for the sake of those not very much interested in these types of topics. Feel free to skip if you belong to that category.
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A few weeks ago, one of our most important appliances – the food processor – started malfunctioning. As soon as it was plugged in, it would start whirring and would not stop unless unplugged. While theoretically still usable, it became a nuisance to operate, scuffling some of Natasha’s most favorite experimentations with patés, salads and salsas.
As I was steeling myself for a protracted suffering from deprivation of some of my most-loved treats, Natasha picked up the Cuisinart documentation and realized that the processor was under 20-year manufacturer’s warranty. She called the customer service and was assured that they would replace the faulty unit.
Here is the timeline of the events as they unfolded:
Thursday – Natasha calls Cuisinart customer service.
Friday – postage label for sending the unit in arrives in our mail.
Monday – Natasha ships the unit to the address on the label.
Thursday – a brand-new food processor arrives at our house.
If somebody told me that a replacement appliance can be obtained within one single week, after a procedure that involves three separate mailings, I’d probably respond with “That can’t be true!” But here we are.
Nicely done, Cuisinart! We already had quite a few of Natasha’s succulent concoctions with a kind word for your service.
If anyone cares how the call limit debacle ended, feel free to look below the fold to learn how it surprisingly concluded to my [almost] entire satisfaction.
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I have not mentioned the concept of the call limit in the past, and yesterday we unwittingly ran afoul of it.
In a nutshell, when a landline phone service is being established in the UK, the phone company determines the monetary limit that the customer should stay under during any given billing cycle. Exceed the limit – and your outgoing calls are summarily blocked unless you pay down the balance with a credit card (if you are so inclined, you can wait to pay your bill in the normal fashion at the end of the cycle, but you will only be able to receive calls during this time).
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Say, you browse a store, any store, and come across an attractive item that is on sale. You’d be lukewarm to the idea of obtaining said item at its original listed price, but an ability to buy it at a discount closes the deal for you.
Now, suppose, as you reach the checkout and a clerk scans the barcode in, the original non-discounted price comes up on the register. You point out to the cashier that the advertised price is considerably below what they are attempting to charge you. What do you hear in response?
I have written before (say, here) about the calling plan that we have in the UK. The name of the plan is TalkTalk and it is with the company called Carphone Warehouse. For a basic monthly charge of £20, we do not pay anything at all for landline calls. And not only within the UK, but also within 35 other countries (pretty much all of Europe, plus Canada, Australia, New Zealand and, most importantly, the US). Calls to mobiles and to toll service lines are extra, but that amounts to a minuscule amount, while allowing us practically unlimited phone time with friends and family. (There is a 69-minute limit, after which the charges start accruing, but simply hang up, redial, and you have yourself another hour-plus of free talk).
Except, Russia is not one of the 35 countries covered by the free service and is quite costly to call. Natasha, obviously, regularly calls her family there, and the frequency of her calls has understandably increased of late. At something around 60p a minute, though, lengthy frequent calls would run us huge charges…
The solution? Easy. Buy an American calling card that gives you 400 minutes for $5, and dial through its US-based access number. Since calling the US is free for us, the cost of the call is exactly what it would be by using the calling card from, say, a New Jersey landline. Ingenious!
Of course, these calling cards never deliver on their promise, and with hidden charges and what not, you probably only get 100 minutes or so, but the difference between 5¢ and 60p per minute is quite considerable, wouldn’t you say?
Continuing with the driving license thread, Natasha finally has scheduled her practical test for sometime in November, and in the meantime, decided to take a lesson or two. The rationale is obviously not to practice driving, but to practice passing the test. At the first lesson, as soon as she pulled out, the instructor remarked that she made five mistakes in the process. Are you kidding me?! The guy is probably looking to scaring her into signing up for additional lessons. Yet, there is little doubt that an examiner during the test will be pedantic in looking for very specific behavior and actions and unreceptive to the notion of prior driving experience, so it makes sense to learn the right formula.
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I have long planned to write an entry on the cost of living comparison between London and New York/New Jersey area. Such an endeavor, being of questionable value from the start, is certainly hard to make compelling. Or exhaustive. At long last, I decided to still do it, but in a limited form…
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One of my free rides has finally caught up with me. To the tune of £830.
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On our trip to the States, we had to take care of renewing two sets of important documents.
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I have ranted on several occasions in the past about British approach to customer service. While the problems that I described before – particularly, incessant handovers from one department to another, with attendant need to go through “security questions” and the description of the issue at hand again and again, – still exist, I am starting to realize that my view of the American approach may have been inexplicably tinted in rosy undertones.
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Contrary to my regular protestations of an utterly routine boredom, things happen to us all the time. As it happens with the rest of humankind, only the biggest things tend to leave an imprint on our memory and, later on, resurface at a point of writing a blog entry.
The last few days gave rise to a few big occurrences, so my task of keeping an up-to-date, yet entertaining, chronicle is so much simpler.
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Chronicles, Customerography, Family & Friends, London & Environs
A funny realization has hit me a few days ago – in a certain sense, somehow, we have been living for free for quite some time.
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That hail on Sunday was a precursor to worsening weather – with the official start of the spring, the temperatures dropped to near freezing, the skies turned to mostly grey, and several short snowfalls made an appearance, melting instantly.
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It’s nothing short of amazing that I don’t impersonate Natasha-without-her-voice today. Try singing karaoke for a hundred songs in one sitting, and you’ll understand…
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Chronicles, Customerography, Family & Friends, That's England
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