Since March 13th, like other people who need to, we have been self-isolating because of the coronavirus. Caroline too, as there’s no point in it unless we both avoid contact with other people.
I need to be isolated because of my age and because I have had a liver transplant. To prevent my body from rejecting that alien organ, my immune system is constantly inhibited by medication of three pills a day, every day.
My doctors’ surgery will only prescribe 28 days’ supply of pills at a time. When I asked if I could have a year’s allocation, the pharmacist said I couldn’t.
The irony that I could become infected by a deadly virus while going to collect life-preserving medication, was not evident to her. Even when I promised that in the event of my early death, any unused pills would be returned, she still said, “No.”
“Why can’t your wife collect them?”
“Because if she becomes infected, I will be too - obviously,” I replied.
The answer was still, “No.”
That particular problem has been resolved, however, because I have enrolled with a company that delivers all the required medication to my door, every month.
I have also managed to get milk, bread, cereals and, fruit and vegetables delivered. The company guarantees to have items at your door by 7:00 a.m. three days a week. I was lucky to become a customer because five days after I signed up, they stopped new clients from joining.
On Thursday morning at 8:15, when I was expecting two pints of milk and a loaf to have been brought, nothing had come.
I knew they must be much busier than usual and so I waited, patiently, hoping it might still come. At 9:30, after a milk free breakfast of Weetabix spread with butter and honey accompanied by black coffee (ugh!), I decided to ring and find out if my milk and bread was coming that day.
As with virtually every other company, their phone was answered by a robot with a female voice. It/She spent more than 2 minutes telling me that they were much busier than usual and there was likely to be a long delay. It/She then told me which numbers to press to get my query answered.
At last, I was on hold listening to a fairly simple, repetitive melody.
I put the phone down on the arm of my chair. I had it on speaker so I could do other things, like reading the newspaper.
A voice interrupted the music and said, so softly that it was almost in a whisper, “The expected wait is 35 minutes.”
Back to the music and then a different voice spoke: “If you wish to cancel a delivery for which you’ve already paid for, go online and…..”
What? I must have misheard it. 35 seconds later she was back. I hadn’t misheard: “If you wish to cancel a delivery for which you’ve already paid for, go online and…..”
Never mind Dryden’s assertion that it is wrong to end a sentence with a preposition, what about the redundant preposition? That second “for” is unnecessary and horrible and it jarred on my sensitive ear.
Five minutes later, the first voice returned and whispered: “The expected wait is 40 minutes.” Eh?
By 9:55, I had heard the redundant “for” more than 30 times and the whisperer was telling me that the expected wait was now 55 minutes. How was that possible? How do people jump a telephone queue?
I started to write down questions I was going to ask the representative who would eventually answer the call. I could wait as long as was needed. I had nothing else to do.
I started to do the Times crossword. I found it more difficult than usual and I was sure it was because twice every minute, I was anticipating and then suffering from hearing, “If you wish to cancel a delivery for which you’ve already paid for, go online and…..”
At 11:03, when I had been “on hold” for more than an hour and a half, at last I spoke to someone.
By then, the fairly simple, repetitive melody had mutated into a jarring, discordant collection of random, dissonant notes. I had heard that redundant preposition “for” approximately 160 times and just before I got through, the whisperer had told me, “The expected wait is 25 minutes.”
“Hello, I’m Lisa. How can I help you this morning?”
I consulted the list I had been writing. It filled very nearly half an A4 sheet of paper.
“Hi Lisa, well, first of all, you could do something about that awful music we’re forced to listen to. It’s really horrible and there’s no escaping it. It just….”
“Can I stop you there, sir? There’s no need to raise your voice or shout.”
“Shout? I wasn’t shouting, I was emphasising. There’s a big difference. Anyway, when I started on hold over an hour and a half ago, the robot told me that there was a thirty-five minute wait but that time kept going up. How can that happen? How is that possible?”
“I don’t know sir and please don’t shout or I will end the call.”
“I am not shouting. I’m doing what people do when they feel strongly about something and I feel strongly about being on hold for more than ninety minutes; about being forced to hear awful, grating music; about my place in the queue going backwards and about a woman who says ‘for which you’ve paid for’ every thirty seconds. Anyway, the reason I called is because I didn’t get my delivery today.”
There was silence.
“Hello……Lisa?”
She’d hung up.
I wish there were some other company from which I could get milk from.
