"Your call is important. Please continue to hold. A customer service representative will deal with your call as soon as one is available." There is a barely audible click as the phone line switches from this recording to a soft rock ballad played by long-forgotten session musicians. I take the phone handset away from my ear, lie back in my chair and allow myself a sigh.
"What is it?" My daughter - bless her - has picked up on my mood.
I wave the handset at her so she can hear the tinny rendition of some vaguely familiar song. "I'm on hold," I tell her. "Somewhere in a queue."
"You could just call them back," my daughter says. "Or you could try their chat thing."
"I hate dealing with chatbots. They get confused if you go off their script, and then you have to call the helpline anyway. I may as well cut out some of the frustration. Besides, at least a human being can escalate matters to someone who can deal with it." I snort in disgust. "Escalate. I hate that word. Why can't people just use plain English?"
My daughter turns on the kettle, and soon the bubbling of boiling water is loud enough to drown out my ranting. I know that she has heard my opinions many times before - my dislike of management speak, how it debases communication, how George Orwell would be turning in his grave - and she knows exactly what to do. "Do you want a cup of tea, dad? I think there's still some cake in the tin."
"Please."
I pick up the receiver again, putting it to my ear. The music is still playing - the same song as before. "They used to have a shop in the mall, so you could go and talk to them. Not any more. Now, if I was a new customer ... ."
My daughter puts a mug of tea and plate with a slice of cake on the table in front of me. The tea is in my white Guinness tankard - the one that only I drink from - and the plate is one that I inherited from my grandmother. For a moment I feel special; my needs recognised and satisfied. I put down the phone and pick up the tankard, taking a moment to savour the fragrant steam from the freshly brewed tea. "Thank you,"I say. And I mean it.
There is a crackling from the phone handset - the music has been replaced by a voice. I nearly drop my precious tea as I grab the receiver. "Hello?" I say. "Hello! Yes! I'm here!"
But it's only the voice from before, telling me that my call is important. But I know that to them I am just one person; I'm nobody special.
