Dear Marks and Spencer

I think your food is very moreish. Your confectionary? Totally addictive. Your customer service? Awful. To be more precise, it stinks.

And whilst I’m being specific, I have to make it clear that I am referring to the customer disservice I received at the hands of one Mark O’Connor on Sunday the 7th of February. He’s the store manager??? at Bluewater. Why the vitriolic tone? Read on, all is about to be revealed.

I had a dinner to go to on the 8th of January. None of the dresses I’d ordered from Next fit. So I decided to order from M&S. I placed my order on the 4th of January, using the nominated day delivery service. This meant my order was due to arrive on the 8th. I know I was cutting if pretty close, but I didn’t have much of a choice as I couldn’t go out shopping.

Waited all day for the delivery, no show. Checked my email in the evening to find out that M&S had sent me one round about 1am to say the dresses would not be delivered because it had snowed. This is the UK, everything grinds to a halt when it snows (except the bills), so I shrugged my shoulders, and dug out something else to wear.

The dresses were delivered the following Saturday, a week and a day after the nominated day delivery was supposed to arrived. I didn’t bother to unpack them, I had my own drama going on. My credit card bill arrived, and it reminded me I needed to return the dresses so I could get a refund. I must reiterate that these dresses had remained sealed in their wrappers, unopened. Since they hadn’t arrived in time, I hadn’t bothered to try them on. They were as pristine as the day they had been made.

Anyways, come Sunday, I grabbed the box the delivery had come in, and headed off to Bluewater to return them. The first indication I had that there were going to be problems, was when the CS woman said ‘The name on your card doesn’t match the name on the order.’

‘I know that.’ I replied. ‘The order is in my married name, the card is still in my maiden name. It wasn’t a problem when I was placing my order.’

She asked for ID in the name on the card. I didn’t have any ID in my maiden name on me, and it was the first time in my entire life I had been asked for ID just to return items. She then asked for my PIN. I do not know my PIN. I only use this particular card for online shopping, and like most of you know, you do not need to enter your PIN when making a cyber purchase. She said she could not process the refund without my PIN. I asked to see her supervisor. Her supervisor came, and said the same thing. So I asked to see the manager. And out he came. Mark O’Connor.

He told me he could not process the refund without a PIN, the register wouldn’t let him. ‘So what am I supposed to do with the dresses?’ I asked. ‘You can take them back with you and keep them’ he said.

‘Keep them?’ I gasped, unable to believe my ears. ‘The reason why I am returning them is because I don’t want them’

He shrugged, he clearly did not give a toss. ‘I can’t give you a refund, you have to send them back by post to the address on the parcel summary’

 I tried again. ‘If I send these back via post, I will not enclose my credit card. How then will my refund be processed? Surely there must be something you can do here to help me?’ ‘If you can’t put this on my card, can I have the cash instead?’

He remained inflexible. ‘I’m sorry, the best I can do is give you a credit note.’

‘A credit note? And I can use this to pay my credit card bill?’ I asked.

He clearly missed the irony in my voice. ‘No you can’t’ he replied glibly.

I realised I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I asked if I could leave the box with them so they could send it to where it needed to go so my refund could be processed eventually, and he said a big fat no.

So I left, clutching the box, with the dresses inside it. And I was seething with fury. Reluctantly, I came to the following conclusions, you take your pick.

Marks and Spencer is a thieving company who were unwilling to assist me in getting a refund so I could pay off my credit card bill. Rather they offered me a credit note of £185.50, so I could come back and spend it in their store, like I had a neon sign emblazoned on my forehead reading ‘Mug’.

Marks and Spencer is a draconian company that installs figureheads in it stores, and gives them the title ‘Store Manager’ so they feel good as they strut around their little kingdoms. However, it refuses to give them any discretion whatsoever in carrying out their duties, it doesn’t trust them to be able to exercise such discretion in favour of its paying customers.

Mark O’Connor is a fully empowered member of Marks and Spencer’s workforce, who just decided that he didn’t want to help. And so he didn’t. I know he could have called up the internet sales people and sorted something out if he’d wanted to. Then again, maybe that hadn’t been in his training manual. Or it had, and he hadn’t read it.

Maybe a name change is in order? Marks and Senser? A little common sense goes a long long way.

There are other less flattering options, but it’s been two days now, and I’m not as cheesed off as I was, so I’ll stop here.

p.s. Your chocolate eclairs are truly scrumptious.

Justjoxy.

Minicabs and their drivers

I had to make quite a few journeys within London last month.

London has excellent public transportation, and I could have made those journeys by bus, but that would have involved a little more effort on my part, effort I was not ready to make. My excuse is that I had to take Ebaby along with me, and I didn’t want the hassles of hauling her buggy on and off a bus. Plus the journey would have taken a lot longer. And what if she had decided she wanted a feed while we were on the bus? I’d have had to haul out the necessary apparatus whilst being in close proximity to total strangers who might or might not have caught a glimpse of the said apparatus. Anyways, that’s why I didn’t go by bus.

I could have driven, but I have not driven solo in London yet. I’m sure I can drive as well as the rest of them, but somehow I did not think driving with a possibly wailing baby in the backseat, as well as with an eye that needed surgical attention was the best time to put my theory to the test. So I did not drive.

This leads me on to the title of this post. I had to take minicabs (which is the name taxis go by over here). Ebaby and I enjoyed the ease of travel. And I got to meet some characters drivers.

One of them, Sonny, was Nigerian. I took his cab three or four times, and we had many interesting conversations, about Nigeria, about the state of the roads in Nigeria, about the fact that I was way overdue for a visit to Nigeria (the last time I was home was in 1995) etc. One conversation stood out in my mind though. It was in the aftermath of the snowy weather we’d had, and there was snow on the sides of the roads.

“Look at that” he gesticulated, waving wildly at the snow. “With all their talk of global warming, they still could not prevent it from snowing”

I cleared my throat and was just about to explain to him that the freak snow was actually as a result of global warming when he suddenly exclaimed “They are talking of global warming. They want to warm up the whole world. Is such a thing possible? Why couldn’t they warm up the sky and prevent this snow from falling?”

I was speechless. As soon as he paused for breath, I steered the conversation back to Nigeria, and the state of her roads.

Juliano, was from Brazil. Very friendly, he asked me what Ebaby’s name was, and remembered it the next time he picked me up. We talked about Brazil, and Brazilian food. I love food. He told me about the trip he’d made to South Africa with his ex-girlfriend, and about how racist he’d found it. He said in Brazil, they had people of different colours, and it wasn’t a big deal, they all got along. We talked some more about food. The third time he picked me, he made a detour just so I could buy some authentic Brazilian food from a street vendor. The food was seriously yummy, he’s officially my favourite cab driver.

Errol, very vocal Jamaican. He told me about how vexed he used to get when Africans got into his cab and tried to haggle over the price. He said he finally got it when he went to Gambia on holiday, and realized it was a way of life for most Africans, not an attempt to raise his blood pressure. He talked about the mouth-watering seafood he’d had in Goa, and about how romantic Venice is. He said T and I must go to Venice, without the kids. We will. And hopefully, we’ll get to go to Goa too. Because I love food, especially seafood. I love to travel too.

The other driver I’m going to tell you about, I don’t know his name. He was an elderly Nigerian, his minicab looked like a hearse, and it stank of urine. Understandably, I wasn’t inclined to chat. I made a mental decision to inform the cab company to never ever send him on a job for me again, but I thought it’s a one-off, and I don’t want to impede his chances of getting future bookings etc. He was a baba, from my country, and I felt for him, even though I could barely breathe.

On my last visit to the hospital, I called for a cab again. A voice told me to insist that I didn’t want Baba, but I thought, hey, what are the odds?

My phone rang to announce the arrival of the cab, and my heart sank as I heard Baba’s voice. Maybe he’s changed his car, I consoled myself. I walked outside and my heart sank further as I saw the hearse.

I got in the cab, and it stank. I was tempted to mix things up a bit by farting, but I restrained myself. Then Baba cranked up the heating. I was baking in a stinking hearse. I had rebuffed his attempts at conversation by replying as tersely as I could, while still remaining polite. Baba was my countryman, an older one at that, and thus was to be accorded respect, stinky cab or not. I asked him to please turn down the heating, he responded by lowering the windows. Blessed relief. I sucked in the ice-cold air greedily, like I was Ebaby having a feed.

Next time I need a minicab, I’ll tell them to please not send Baba.

Thanks for stopping by .

The week that was

Things happened last week Wednesday.

One of them was the Haiti disaster. I had never been one to donate aid in the past, no matter the disaster. I justified it by saying only a small percentage of the amount donated would actually reach the needy; the rest would be swallowed up by administrative costs. This time though, I reasoned that even if that were the case, that small percentage would still go some way to alleviating someone’s misery, and so it was worth donating.

It doesn’t have to be money, but please donate something. There but for the grace of God…………………..

Another thing that happened was that I had to have eye surgery. Not exactly the way I’d wanted to start the New Year, but hey, that’s life. The surgery was successful, I’m getting better daily, so you won’t be hearing any complaints from me. Rather, I’m thankful to God for seeing me through yet again, and thankful for the NHS. Yes, they don’t always get it right, but most times, they are spot on.

So that’s why I haven’t updated in a while. There are a load of things I want to say, but for now, they’ll have to wait. Please bear with me till I’m back on form.

Thanks as always, for stopping by.

Jollof rice

Ingredients

• 2 cups of  long grain rice
• 2 400g tins of plum chopped tomatoes
• 1 large onion
• 2 scotch bonnet peppers (or less)
• 2 Maggi crayfish stock cubes
• 1 tsp dried mixed herbs
• 1 tsp curry powder (optional)
• 1 cooking spoonful Vegetable oil

Put the rice on to boil for about 10 minutes. Drain and rinse under cold running water until water is clear. Empty into a sieve to drain and set aside. Finely slice the onion, and set aside. Finely slice the scotch bonnet peppers and set aside. I’ve heard that the real chili heat is in the seeds, leave them out if you can’t handle the heat. Put some vegetable oil (not olive oil, not palm oil) in a pot and heat it up. Drop a slice of onion in, when it starts sizzling, add the rest of the sliced onions. Stir till the onions start to shrivel, then add the sliced scotch bonnet peppers. Keep stirring as they tend to burn the minute you take your eyes off them! When the peppers too start shrivelling, add the cans of tomatoes to the mix, and leave for about 5 minutes. Add the dried mixed herbs, curry powder if using and the stock cubes. Stir from time to time for even distribution and to make sure the cubes have melted. Some stock cubes can be very stubborn. When the sauce has fried properly, add the drained rice. All the above should be done on a high heat. Stir the rice rapidly to seal the grains, and prevent the rice from sticking to the bottom of the pot. When you see that the rice and sauce have become well integrated, put some salt to taste  in one of the empty tins of tomato, and top up with water till it is about three-quarters full. Swirl the water around a bit to dissolve the salt, then add to the rice. Turn the heat right down, and leave to steam for about 10 to 15 minutes, depending on whether you like your rice crunchy, like tuwo, or in between. Stir once halfway through, again to ensure even distribution of flavours. Once cooked, enjoy your meal.

I know there are over a hundred ways of cooking jollof rice, but this is the way I cook mine, and it turns out finger lickin’ good.

This is what I fancied cooking today, but my boiler issues only got sorted mid-way through the show, so I didn’t want to go into the ice-cold kitchen. We had Chinese takeaway instead.

Thanks for stopping by.

This Saturday……..

I’ll be appearing on Vera’s show.

Alright, quick edit. I’ll be featuring on Verastically Speakin’ Talk Radio. To be more precise, I’ll be co-hosting it with her, for the very first time.

‘Who is Vera?’ I hear you ask. I’ve mentioned her in the past, here, and here. She is this amazing person who has made the decision to live verastically, and write about it too.

I’m really excited about this, and I hope you’ll be tuning in to join us. We’ll be talking about lists, and about that wanna be lad.

I have to go now. It’s been snowing on and off over the last few days, and my boiler’s just about had enough. I’m waiting for the engineer to come and sort it out, till then, back under the duvet I go.

Thanks for stopping by.

Mofopefoluwa

2009

A lot of things happened this year, and in all of them, I give God thanks. That’s what the title of this post means, for you my readers who do not understand Yoruba.

Yes, I give God thanks.

I am thankful for T, and for my adorable children.

I survived yet another C-section, and have a beautiful daughter to show for it.

I finally passed my driving test, on my eighth attempt.

My children turned 2, 6 and six months, in that order.

T stayed in employment, despite the current economic climate.

I started blogging.

So I am thankful. For these and other blessings too numerous to mention.

Yes, some things may not have turned out the way I wanted them, but I thank God for the gift of life, and for the opportunity to try again.

I thank God for you, who have stopped by to read this, and I pray that 2010 will bring into your life the very best of His blessings.

Happy New Year.

 

 

New neighbours

Christmas has been and gone. I had a nice quiet one, just T, I, and the girls. I cooked this on Christmas day with roast potatoes etc. I cooked jollof rice and baked red fish bream on Boxing day. Sunday, it was this with mashed potatoes. Yesterday, we had efo elegusi (containing dried fish, panla, saki, oxtail, chicken and bokoto) with pounded yam. T and the girls kept grinning at me while they ate, I guess they enjoyed my efforts.

This post however is not about food or the eating of it despite the preceding paragraph. It is about our new neighbours.

They moved into their brand new purpose-built house on the 26th of this month. There had been some speculation as to who they would be, but all was revealed on the day. There are six of them, two grandparents, two parents, and two children. I thought one of the children was a boy, but Egirl has assured me that they are both girls. One’s called Sophie, the other Kathron or something like that. They appear nice enough, but to me they seem rather wooden.

I have glanced into their house anytime I have gone past. Yes I know I was  being nosey, but I just couldn’t help myself. They didn’t appear to have any furniture at all on the first day, but had somehow acquired a fully fitted kitchen the next time I peeked in.

Egirl was a bit worried about how they’d survive without furniture, but I explained to her that sometimes when families are just starting out, they need to budget, and save money towards the things they want to purchase. I told her this would help them appreciate what they do have, which is each other. I told her T and I hardly had any furniture when we started out, we lived in a rented flat. And see how far we’ve come from that. I think it is important for her to learn about delayed gratification, especially in this society of ours where everything including food is available right now via the buy now pay later credit card scheme. The current mentality seems to be that there is no need to save for something, or wait till you can afford it, when you can have it on credit. So I told her not to worry about the neighbours, they’ll be alright in the end.

Why is a six-year-old concerned about her neighbours?

 ’What’s her business?’ I hear you ask.

Well, it’s like this you see. She is starting out in real estate pretty young. She is their landlord. They live in their house, in her bedroom.

Thanks for reading, this is my life – as I see it.

All I want for Christmas is……

T asked me ages ago what I wanted for Christmas. He asked me way back in November. As I type, I still haven’t made up my mind.

Yes, I know Christmas is only a few hours away. So I will make this very brief. I haven’t been on here for a while. Egirl is on holiday, and my days are full. I am called upon to act as referee between her and Etoddler. Constantly.  Ebaby needs carrying, cuddling, changing. They all need feeding. I am also busy playing Scrabble. And thinking of what I need want for Christmas.

I don’t know whether or not he was born on the 25th of December. Or whether this period was originally set aside for a pagan celebration. What I do know is that he was born. He lived, died, and lives. That I may live. That the 25th of December is set aside as a celebration of his birth is neither here nor there. In truth, his birth should be remembered daily, not just once a year.

So I am taking this opportunity to wish you all a merry Christmas. And it is my prayer that the year ahead is filled with God’s blessings, for you, for yours.

I don’t want to be the only one without anything to unwrap on Friday, so I really must go and play one more game of Scrabble decide what I want for Christmas.

I already have the only thing one I need. Jesus Christ, my Lord.

Dear Tommy Hilfiger (Part Two)

You needn’t have bothered. Honestly.

I wrote an open letter to you, because I had tried in vain to reach you by email.

So I wrote you, and got a response to my post from Chris. He is the director of e-commerce for Filltek.com. I must confess that I was really chuffed when he replied, because I thought it meant my voice had been heard, and my issues were going to be addressed.

I replied him on the 4^th of December with my contact details just as he had asked. I also forwarded copies of every single email I had sent, just for the purpose of clarity. Then I waited for a response. And waited. And waited some more.

On the 10^th of December, I forwarded my reply to him again. This time I got a response.

The response came from Tim. He also copied it to Chris and Darryl. I guess they were pretty pleased with what he’d written. In his reply, he fibbed. He claimed and I quote

‘……we have some issue with you receiving responses from the Tommyhelp@filltek.com email address.  We have made several attempts to email you and if you are not seeing those perhaps your email is blocking them?’

I use a Gmail address.  As far as I know with Gmail, if you send an email to an address and they respond, that address gets added to your contacts, the response goes straight to your inbox, it is never sent to your spam folder. And just in case I am wrong about this, I had trawled through my spam folder daily, wading through all the offers to sell me Pfizer medication at discount prices, just to see if there was a reply from you, Tommy, in there. There wasn’t.

So unless someone at Filltek.com can forward me the attempts they made to email me, I stand by my claim that you told an untruth.

Moving on. In my first letter, I stated that I had issues ordering clothes for my daughter. Wise Tim decided to send me a whole list of size conversions. For shoes!

Honestly? You really shouldn’t have bothered.

He also stated that you were working on your website to get the correct sizes on there. As at this morning, you still haven’t gotten it right.

Filltek.com is in charge of your e-commerce. And I really do wish you luck with that, because frankly, the way they operate, you’re going to need it.

I’m not boycotting your clothes, I happen to genuinely like them. With the economy in the state that it is, you need to grab every customer with both hands. And you’ve lost me. Online, that is.

Thanks for reading.

UK Border Force

There is this program I watch. It is meant to show how the UK Border Force tackles illegal immigration. Compelling viewing, it highlights how the system works. If it were up to me, I would have edited the content slightly, but since they have made the decision to show me, tell me, I believe it is only fair to share what I have learned. And so, an alternative title for this post might just be… 

An idiot’s guide for illegal immigrants  

You have made it into the UK, one way or the other. You are fully aware that you have overstayed your visa. And that if caught, you will be deported. Here are some dos and don’ts.

1. Obey the laws of the land. Fine, you are breaking the law anyway by being an overstayer. Do not compound it by sheer stupidity. Pay the appropriate fare on the buses, trains, tube etc. Quite a few people are picked up while trying to dodge their fares.
2. Do not drive without a valid licence, Make sure the documentation for your car is current.  And resist the temptation to drive as if you are behind the wheel of a danfo. 
3. Do keep your head down. Do not engage in activities that will draw unnecessary attention to you. Like driving around in a flashy car,
4. Do carry yourself with confidence. Walk like you belong here. Practice walking past policemen without breaking into a sweat, a run, or both. So that the day you see immigration officers checking people as you are heading to your tube station, you can carry on walking without breaking your stride despite your mental turmoil. Your greatest threat does not come from the uniformed officers. It comes from the plain clothed ‘spotters’.  Yes, the people who are mingling in the crowd, just watching to see if you will break into a sweat, or try to run.
5.  Never, ever, carry documents on you that will identify you as an overstayer. This includes letters from home asking how your job is going etc. If they can’t establish your real identity, it’ll be a lot harder to deport you.
6. On being apprehended in spite of following steps 1 – 3 above, say for instance you are ambushed at work, do not give the immigration officers any incriminating information. They are not your friends, don’t start gisting with them.
7. Do not have your passport at the address where you live. They need to see your passport to confirm a) your identity, and b) that you are an overstayer. Without your passport, their hands are tied. You can’t be deported. I think. So do not give them your passport. No matter how nicely they ask.  And if they do not find your address on your person, you do not have to give it to them. It’s not like they’ll allow you to take a change of clothing if you lead them to your house, all they want to do is gather evidence against you. Don’t make it easy for them.
8.  Please, please, please. If all else fails, do not start begging. It is uncomfortable viewing seeing my countrymen kneeling down, and begging. Man up and face the music.
9. Do try to remember your date of birth. By this I mean the date you are claiming you were born on. If you are over 35, there’s no point in claiming to be 17. Be realistic when choosing a date, and memorise it. When asked your age, don’t stutter.
10.  If you are claiming to be a student, do show up at your course from time to time. Don’t get so caught up in chasing Charlie’s mother that you forget your cover story.
11. If you intend to travel to the States from Nigeria to have your baby, choose a direct flight. Do not travel via the UK. Do not wait till you are almost popping before making your journey. There is this nice lady who works at the British High Commission in Lagos. Her job is to spot and stop people like you at Murtala Mohammad Airport. Even if you have valid visas. She has no business with you if you are flying direct to Yankee. If however, you decide to break your journey, you will not even make it unto the plane. She will pour sand into your gari. She will phone the Americans, and they will invite you for a chat. You will miss your flight, the Americans will cancel your visa. You have been warned.

 

Disclaimer

This is all I can remember for now. This information is not legally binding. I am not an advocate of illegal immigration. If despite following the instructions above, you are deported, tough luck.