A Supermarket Tale

A London Sainsbury's Supermarket

I never seem to pick the right queue at the supermarket check-out.  I pick the one that just opened and I wait minutes while the cashier settles himself in.  I pick the one with just one person ahead of me while all the others have two or more and as soon as it's my turn a cashiers shift change occurs. Then there is the one where the stick-on barcode has fallen off and the computer says, "No" and I have to wait until a human finds the price.  Or, the woman ahead of me spends five minutes hunting through her handbag for her loyalty card and then another ten finding her debit card.  OK, maybe those times are slightly exaggerated, but it's true -  I never choose the route to the quickest supermarket exit.

So, this morning as I approached the check-out with my basket the usual choice had to be made.  I saw they had about five registers open.  They all had two or three people plus the one being checked-out.  As I headed for the nearest one, I heard a manager telling a cashier to open register 21.  I checked the numbers.  I was at 26.   I turned and took a step toward 21, but was cut off by a fast moving woman with a full trolley.

Now, what?  I could continue on and be number one behind the woman with the full trolley or step back into my original target queue where there were two women waiting with fairly small collections of items.  I processed for a few seconds thinking what ever I do I'm going to pick the wrong one and I stepped back to where I had been.

A Tale of Resurrection

America In London

I'm dead.  I don't feel dead.  And, while I'm getting up there in years, I don't think I look dead either.  The usual signs like lack of a heart beat, pale skin, bloating, and hideous odours just aren't there.  Ok, well, maybe a little bloating, but you get that sometimes.  It alone doesn't mean you're dead!

According to Citibank, though, I died about three years ago and they reported as much to US credit agencies.  Being a huge multi-national bank, of course, they couldn't be wrong.  Could they?

I discovered my death when Rob and I tried to open a bank account back in the US after that horror of a bank, HSBC America, closed our account on a whim.  We contacted the bank branch that my family has been with for the past 35 years.  They were happy to do it all by email and we sent them the details.  A return email stated that while they were happy to open an account for Rob, their credit agency, Experian, said I was dead.  So, I could not be on the account.  And, so the saga began.

The bank told me I had to straighten things out with Experian and also get a letter from the Social Security Administration saying that my Social Security number was not "deceased".  A 35 year relationship obviously means nothing when the computer says, "No".

When Bad Customer Service Goes Good

I just had one of those extremely frustrating yet eventually satisfying experiences with British customer service.

We're off to 'the Continent' for a holiday soon.  So, today was the day I planned to tick "Get Euros" off my list.

My last experience buying "Travel Money", as it's called, taught me that online is better than in bank.   That time, I'd checked the rate online at my bank's website and then toddled off to my local branch to buy my Euros.  On my way home, after doing some calculations in my head - never been good at maths - it hit me I'd paid a lot more than the online rate.  After some investigation, I learned that using the person at the bank costs a lot, and I stress A LOT more than ordering online where the bank incurs the added cost of home delivery.  Hard to believe, I know, but there you go.

Being an old dog that can learn new tricks, this morning, I went back to the website.  I filled in the order form, which takes some time.  Then went through the confirmations only to have the site tell me the order could not be processed.  I tried again.  Same response.  The computer said, "No."

I called the helpline offered.  After entering my birthday, sort code and account number, I couldn't remember the telephone banking PIN we chose 5 months ago and never used.  After a few wrong guesses, the pressure was really on because the computerised voice told me if I hung up I'd be locked out and then went back to demanding the correct numbers.  Eventually, I got it right and reached a human.

I Can Be Trained

Nice shade of blue, isn't it?

Movement!  I'm sure I saw something.  It was just out of the corner of my eye.  It moved.

I had been talking to a friend in our kitchen.  He was seated at the breakfast bar which is at a floor to ceiling window and I had just seen something move on the deck outside.

It was huge, furry, grey and had a long hairless tail.

Ok, maybe 'huge' is the wrong word.  It was a mouse, but I HATE mice!  I hate rats too, but fortunately, I've only ever met one rat and it had a cage.  Mice on the other hand, I've met many times and it has never been a happy occasion.

Unlike Daughter No.1, who once found a damaged but still alive mouse in a cup in the gutter on her way home from school and who brought it home and nursed it back to a pet, I don't think mice are cute.  And, before you ask, no, I don't know, where we went wrong with Daughter No.1.

What Is It With Banks These Days?

HSBC: The World's Local Bank, yeah, right!

This was going to be a tale of the warnings we received about dinosaur British banks, but the ever competitive Americans decided that they wanted to steal the focus.  While it isn't easy to open a simple bank account in the UK (more later), our recent experience with a US bank makes British banks look like the Starship Enterprise.  In fact, I'm beginning to think that unlike their British counterparts, US banks are truly hostile to foreigners and that includes, American citizens living abroad, like me.

When we were in Hong Kong on our way to London there was an HSBC ad running on TV there.  A little girl is selling lemonade from a stand on a residential street.  A Brazilian woman and her child come up to make a purchase.  The little entrepreneur points out she takes Brazilian Real.  The same ad runs here in the UK, but the mother and child are from Hong Kong and the little entrepreneur takes Hong Kong Dollars and even speaks Cantonese.  The ad likely runs in the US and other HSBC markets.  The ad finishes with the message that HSBC is "the World's local bank" and that they're interested in the little guy - or girl as the case may be.

Well, it's all a lie, at least where HSBC America is concerned - I don't want to taint all HSBC operations.  We had an HSBC account in the US since we lived there several years ago.  With family in the States, it made sense to keep it.  It makes gifting easier, saves exchange rate issues for travel home and with elderly parents - well you never know when you might need to move some money fast.

Our latest statement arrived at the end of May.  I opened it and to my surprise I found that we had a zero balance.  WHAT!?!  Identify theft?

We Loved National Rail Until We Didn't

Southeastern Railway Train at Rye, Sussex 

Since we arrived in London, people have been telling us about how bad the London Underground, the Tube, and the National Rail services really are.  And, we kind of thought they were exaggerating.  I mean we've been here a month and have had no problems.  The Tube is a great way to get around although it does hinder your ability to get your bearings.  You pop up here and pop up there and don't ever really know how it all relates above ground.

On the rail side we had two really good experiences.  We went to Rye to investigate that East Sussex town's antiques and vintage scenes.  It was a great day out exploring Rye's picturesque streets and numerous shops.  The train trips there and back all went smoothly.

Weekend before last, we had another smooth trip to Walton-on-Thames.  We departed on time and arrived on time both ways.  The only hiccup was our decision to travel to Waterloo Station to catch a train we could have got at a station around the corner, but we're learning.

Then there was this past weekend.  Well, it didn't go so smoothly.

London Landmines

There I was, walking home from the gym this morning.  I had stopped at Sainsbury's to pick up a few things and was heading back to the flat when it happened.  I crossed the street, stepped on to the opposite footpath and - BAM! - it happened.

Cold and moist shot across the top of my Nike Frees, into my socks and up over the bottom of my jeans.  God damn it!  I had stepped on yet another London Landmine.  I just can't seem to avoid these nasty little surprises in the footpath.

You see, most London footpaths are paved with assorted materials like stones, tiles, or bricks.  They add character to this wonderful old city.  Unfortunately, though, it seems rain - and we've had floods of that - undermines some of them and water sits under them just waiting for an unsuspecting pedestrian like me to step on them.  Then, they explode with water, mud, muck and sometimes worse flying everywhere.

I was lucky today.  I only hit one loaded with water.  The first time one got me a few weeks back, mud shot out and all over the bottom of my shoes and trousers.  That was not a pretty sight.  Although, three young guys sitting on a bench outside the nearby college thought it was pretty funny.

I guess I shouldn't complain too much though, I'm lucky we aren't living in China where the pavement traps are a little more dramatic...

Was that Greek or what?

Silence.  Then a flash of confusion with a hint of panic passes across his face.

Seconds earlier, the sales woman at Peter Jones had asked Rob if he wanted his receipt put in the bag.  Once again a Brit had asked Rob a question and he had absolutely no idea what was asked.  Sometimes he looks at me and sometimes he just stares eyes forward as if nothing was asked.  This time it was the latter.  The silence can be painful.  So, I jump in to save him.  "Yes, that''ll be fine," I replied on his behalf.

I'm sure this woman like all the others think I'm just a pushy partner, but I'm just saving them time.

It took a few days in London for me to recognise the look, but then I remembered it.  It was the same look he used to get when some native Spanish speakers would speak English to him in LA.  Of course, the difference this time is these people are native English speakers.

Most English accents don't cause this communication breakdown and I have yet to figure out where the troublesome accents come from - Essex or London's East End, perhaps - but I do know how he feels.

The other day, the building owners sent some guys to do routine maintenance on the heating system in our apartment.  It was a 7 am appointment and unfortunately on this day they were prompt.  I let them in and they went about their business and we ours.

Rob and I were in the kitchen when one of the guys came in and said something.  At first I felt like I was in an episode of the vintage British TV series 'Allo 'Allo, where the French & German characters who 'don't speak English' hear it in a special way.  All I heard was, "Fa fafafa, fa fafafa, fa..."

After a couple of seconds, though, the translation part of my brain kicked in and I realised the guy had said he needed to take one of the units down to the garage and run some water through it with a hose.  So, just a little too slowly for him not to have noticed the translation pause, I replied, "Yep, no problem."

Rob and I had been thinking about resuming our German classes, but now I'm thinking maybe we need to investigate some classes in British Accents for Colonial English Speakers.

London Broadband Blues

I’m old enough (just) to remember a time when there was only one telephone company.  Then some bright spark decided we needed competition.  Competition was going to bring us choice, cheaper rates and better service.  Well, frankly, it’s not working for me.

BT Home Hub bringing BT Total Broadband

 My last post was over a week ago.  Why?  Well, getting a phone and broadband set up is not a simple matter in Great Britain.  

First there is that supposed benefit of choice.  There are a dozen companies or more offering phone and broadband services and most offer combo deals with digital TV and mobile services.  Each of these have five, ten or twenty plans “designed just for you”.  So, ‘choice’ quickly becomes confusion.  Do I want mobile with by broadband and Sky TV thrown in or do I want Orange to set up my phone line from BT so Orange can then provide me broadband.  Do I want 10 gigs a month, 40 gigs or unlimited?  Do I need unlimited?  Would I like fries with that?  God, I don’t know.

By the time I checked out five or so providers and their packages (that’s their telecoms packages), I was no closer to a decision.  I was just confused.  The ‘benefit’ of choice had become a nightmare.  So, I reverted to the dinosaur.