What took me so long?
My son thinks that if his mother were an eskimo anyone could sell me ice. Maybe. Who knows.
Unlike most people in the UK I actually answer the phone with my name.
Phone rings. I answer: “Ursula …. speaking.” Answer: ” Can I please speak to Ursula ….?” “Yes, speaking.”
Remember: We have established that the caller is speaking to me.
Enter 1984, Big Brother is watching you, Orwell. I haven’t got the faintest idea who is calling me, only to be inundated with questions like: What’s your address, your maiden name, your mother’s maiden name, your pet’s name, your date of birth, keep going …
Are these people ticking ok? So I, being friendly and forgiving of those in call centres ask, politely, and before answering their questions, who I am talking to. Here we enter the sublimely ridiculous: I am being told that, for my security, they first need to verify my identity in order to tell me why they are calling. Come again?
I put my foot down today, gently, politely. No more of this nonsense.
Whoever called me yesterday and today, twice in a row, trying to elicit rather personal information: I am sorry but please do tell your management that this is not the way forward. From now on I refuse to enter any such exchange unless you tell me your shoe size and why I have to make sense of incomprehensible accents.
Excellent. And it’s only lunchtime.