Innocence Lost - A Tale of Consumer Related Trials

I had seen the world in shades of pink for years, and frequently needed to wipe my lenses on the hem of my shirt. So when cynicism first fired its wounding words from my mouth, I was surprised. Reality and scepticism had quietly crept inside without so much as a brushed tread-mark on the welcome mat.

It had been a hard day. I guess it could be equated to a major incident like a train crash for those who work in the emergency services. All gore and no relief. Perhaps I’m being too melodramatic – some would say I am. But really, I’m just trying to paint a picture here. One that all of you can easily imagine, I’m sure. At the time, I worked as a customer services representative for a clothing company. My only responsibility was to answer the telephones and take people’s orders from them. That was all that was required of me – so perhaps my attempt at imagery was exaggerated out of all proportion. Hell, you can’t blame me for trying.

I had dealt with difficult customer after difficult customer for most of the morning, on top of which I was suffering in a way that only another woman would understand. Now, I’ve never been one to suffer with PMT before, so that could hardly be construed as an excuse. This was different. This was sheer tiredness of the treatment I had been receiving all day from one arrogant buyer after another.

Previous to this day, I would have taken it all in my stride. I would have smiled – you can hear a smile in a voice, did you know that? – taken a deep breathe and simply carried on with a simple “Yes, madam, I understand.” Not anymore. Too many times I had let some poor excuse for a consumer chew my ear off in temper for one petty reason or another, and I was not going to take it anymore.

I can only describe it as an elastic band, stretched to its full length. One more tug and the elastic cracks, splits and snaps apart with an audible sting. That was me. My mood. My temperance.

If you’ve never seen a normally coherent woman suddenly fray apart at the seams and flap into a frenzy, then you have missed something truly special. My colleagues reported afterwards that it was “quite something”. Don’t misunderstand me. There was no raising of the voices, nor did I rise from my seat at any time. No arm waving, no redness in the face. It was all fairly understated really, by anyone else’s standards. But for me, it could only be described as “losing one’s rag”.

“So madam, what you mean to tell me is the order you previously placed was done before you stuffed your face at Christmas lunch, thus rendering yourself too fat to fit into any of the items that were delivered on the 27th December, is that right? Well, may I make one suggestion? Perhaps you should stop eating that wedge of chocolate truffle I can hear you slavering away on, confine all fatty substances to the fridge – including yourself, and call me back when you feel you’re able to squeeze that lard-arse of yours into a size 16 without having to lie on the floor to do up the top button. Good day to you madam.”

Clunk.