On Complaining

On Complaining

It takes a lot to get me angry, but these people have made me so cross I can barely put my clothes on in the right order. The worst threat of all I have saved for the final line of the letter.

That'll learn 'em.

Dear Sirs

You might remember me as the person who ordered a suite from you four months ago. You may also remember the large deposit we paid, which you have almost certainly spent by now.

Ring any bells? Because we'd really like to have it now.

We are told by your shop staff in your Weymouth branch that we hold the current record for your longest ever outstanding order. If this is the case, do we win a prize?

How about, say, an extra three hundred pounds off the agreed sale price, plus the extended warranty at no charge?

We would, after the chaps from Guinness have been round to verify our entry into their Book of Records, appreciate if you could make some sort of attempt to get our suite to us at some stage this month as, frankly, we are becoming quite sick of sitting on orange crates.

Having said all that, we have been hugely entertained by your endless stream of excuses whilst waiting for our order to be fulfilled.

We were particularly tickled by the fact that your Chinese suppliers were having trouble getting hold of the right colour cows; and that the ship bringing our suite from the other side of the world may actually have been attacked by Malay pirates, or even have taken a wrong turning on its way to Southampton.

In particular, we have been dazzled by your warehouseman's supremely skilled "It's in our warehouse... err... no it isn't" magic trick, a feat he has managed on no less than three occasions, rivalling David Copperfield's disappearance of the Statue of Liberty several years ago as the one-off lucky strike of a fumbling amateur.

We would, in normal circumstances, look forward to further sightings of our suite as it tours Gracelands or gets involved - somehow - with the current Iranian nuclear stand-off, but we'd much rather have it in our living room so we can sit on it with our feet on the dog.

So, sick as we are of this Premier League muppetry, please arrange delivery by the end of next week. If not, we'll be in to collect our deposit, before telling the local paper how awful you are, photographed in your car park pointing wanly at our battered orange boxes.

I remain, sirs, your loyal servant &c,

Duck (Scary)

P.S. I'm blogging this