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| MARTHA CASEY |
This is the story of how a simple shoe-buying mission became a rage-inducing heap of customer service fail.
I had found my dream shoes online, and more or less had my heart set on them already but, to be on the safe side, I decided to bring a friend to the shop to make sure they looked fabulous. (Spoiler: they did!) The point is, this should have been a nice, simple, straightforward shopping expedition. It was not to be.
We entered the shop and were immediately pounced upon by a trendy-haired, chunky-trainered sales assistant with the general demeanour of a Blue Peter presenter on laughing gas. "HELLO!" she sang. "CAN I HELP YOU AT ALL WOULD YOU LIKE A BASKET DO GIVE ME A SHOUT IF YOU WANT ANYTHING". The experience was akin to being hit in the face with a glow-in-the-dark chair. Had I not already had my heart set on the shoes, I would have walked out then and there.
Having located the shoes, I asked to try them on. Or, rather, I asked four or five times if I could try them on, because the background music was so loud I was forced to repeat myself. I will never understand why some shops do this; ultimately it makes it more difficult to spend your money there, and in my experience shops want to make money. The only explanation I can think of is that someone, somewhere, assumes that The Kidz like loud music, and therefore, loud music will attract hip and groovy youngsters who will then buy their merchandise. To which I would say, well, how many of these hip and groovy youngsters can actually afford to shop here, eh?
(Incidentally, I once worked in a high-street fashion store that had the same problem; we staff found the loud, pumping, inane music deeply annoying and the customers hated it, but still we played it at maximum volume because of some directive from the mysterious "head office". "Head office" also thought that it was a good idea to heavily imply that earrings costing £1 were real gold, but they were head office, so we had to do what they said or they’d do something awful to us, probably involving glitter.)
Eventually, the sales assistant brought the shoes, and I tried them on. They were (rather annoyingly) fabulous and a great fit. As I walked around to test them, I was treated to a particularly shrill, stream-of-consciousness-style onslaught of the assistant’s opinions.
Eventually, the sales assistant brought the shoes, and I tried them on. They were (rather annoyingly) fabulous and a great fit. As I walked around to test them, I was treated to a particularly shrill, stream-of-consciousness-style onslaught of the assistant’s opinions.
“THE GREAT THING ABOUT THESE SHOES IS THAT YOU CAN REPLACE THE LACES!” she shrieked. “YOU CAN MATCH THEM TO ANYTHING YOU LIKE JUST BY CHANGING THE LACES! YOU COULD PUT RIBBON IN THEM! YOU CAN BUY RIBBON IN A SHOP!!”
Yes, I agreed. It would indeed be possible to change the laces in these shoes. Had I been able to get a word in around her shrieking I might have pointed out that this is, in fact, possible with most shoes. I didn’t get a chance, as I was instead learning that “MY MATE’S GOT THESE AND SHE PUT BRIGHT YELLOW RIBBON IN THEM”. Moreover, “THREE PEOPLE HAVE PICKED THESE UP SINCE YOU CAME IN, THEY MUST BE POPULAR” (I don’t care if they are popular, but thanks), “I NEVER USED TO WEAR HEELS BUT THEY’RE SO GOOD, OUR ONES, YOU CAN WALK IN THEM UP THE STAIRS AND EVERYTHING” (congratulations, you’ve mastered a pretty basic human function), and “ARE THEY FOR SOMETHING SPECIAL, YOU’VE GOT TO LOOK SPECIAL IF IT’S FOR SOMETHING SPECIAL” (stop trying to sell me the shoes! If I like them, I’ll buy them. That’s how this works).
Eventually, and kicking myself for encouraging the assistant’s behaviour, I managed to communicate that yes, despite her best attempts to make my ears bleed, I would like to purchase these shoes. I was almost annoyed at how well they fitted and how nice they looked, because I really wanted to walk out - but, as my grandmother used to say, vanity over sanity.
At the till, my shopping companion remembered the sign in the shop window advertising a discount to students, and as she is on her way to a PhD, very kindly dug out her ID so that I might benefit. But here we stumbled upon another hurdle: “NO WE ACTUALLY DON’T DO A STUDENT DISCOUNT SORRY WE CAN’T DO A DISCOUNT WE NEVER DO STUDENT DISCOUNTS!” said the assistant.
“But there’s a sign in the window,” my companion pointed out.
“NO WE ACTUALLY DON’T DO A STUDENT DISCOUNT SORRY WE CAN’T DO A DISCOUNT WE NEVER DO STUDENT DISCOUNTS!!” came the answer.
“But... the sign in the window?”
“NO WE ACTUALLY DON’T DO A STUDENT DISCOUNT SORRY WE CAN’T DO A DISCOUNT WE NEVER DO STUDENT DISCOUNTS!!?!”
This exchange was repeated a number of times, during which another assistant, also with achingly trendy hair and enormous trainers, joined in the “debate”. Presently it transpired that the presence of a sign advertising a discount means nothing if the assistant can shriek loudly enough. Possibly the pitch of her voice was sufficiently high that her eyeballs were vibrating and she couldn’t read it; I don’t know.
The point is that the discount was not, it seemed, available, and for the most ridiculous non-reason. If they’d said that her discount couldn’t be used on my purchase, say, I might have understood. But there was no sense to it. If it weren’t for this lovely weather we’re having I might be forced to put down my cocktail and write a Strongly Worded Letter.
(Incidentally, my shopping companion thinks the assistants were lying. In the interest of fairness, I don't think they were, as such. I just think they were both irredeemably stupid. I think they probably "lie" to themselves each morning about whether they're wearing clothes or not, or whether walking repeatedly into a wall is a good idea.)
As we left the store, another customer entered and was immediately bombarded with the same high-pitched hard sell technique. Thankfully for all concerned, though, the assistant actually screamed so loudly and excitedly that her head exploded, and the customer was spared.
At least the shoes are nice, anyway. Read more by Martha.
