Feminine Hygiene Products.

Now here's the challenge. How do I talk about this experience openly without anyone squirming in their seat. Prepare yourself readers, its going to get slightly ugly. 

Let's start by saying every second person on this planet bleeds, or has bled, on a monthly basis for most of their adult lives. Nearly every female you know has gone through this, or is going through this or will go through this. We're talking menstruation, periods, monthly visitors - that unforgivable and unmentionable subject, less accepted than talking about bowel movements. True.  Sit in a backpackers cafe and eavesdrop for an hour. 

This week after a particularly strenuous pilates class, I needed to make a purchase of feminine hygiene (FH) products. They call them this even though I know a lot of unfeminine women who use them.  I couldn't be bothered trekking up the hill to the expensive pharmacy. Remember this was just after pilates, and I had already worked my abs and gluts. There was a small little convenience store where we had parked, and despite the noisy and offensive sparkling lights around the door, I took my chances. After all, I was in Kings Cross and this kind of decor is considered normal. 

I immediately located the FH products so walked over and found my preference from a very generous choice. I placed my package on the counter and waited for the young male attendant to serve me. Why is it that whenever I need to buy these things, I always get served by young men? I'm in my forties and you would think this act could go without incident by my age. No such luck. The young man sneered as he picked up the packet to scan it in. It wasn't smothered in dog poo, but it may as well have been. I also asked about Panadol. He grunted toward the shelf stacked with pain killers and I returned with Nurofen. The Zavance label for fast acting pain relief. Why would anyone choose the slow acting variety? Plus, they didn't have the period pain variety so Zavance it was. 

My man, lets call him Nasif  because that's what it said on his name tag, then asked me why everyone asks for Panadol but then come back with Nurofen? I told him I wasn't in marketing. I had no idea and I didn't really care, I really just wanted to pay and get out. He looked up at the ceiling for an answer - nothing but peeling paint up there, buddy. 

He then picked up my packet of FH products and looked at them again. He took a long hard and thoughtful look at my little package and asked me why all the women who buy FH packets also buy pain killers at the same time? 

"Oh I don't know, perhaps it has something to do with period pain". 

The mere mention of the P word (not pain) made him glow a very deep red and he couldn't take my money fast enough. 

Male partners take note: save your woman the embarrassment of this customer service experience and offer to buy them for her. In advance. With chocolate. 

Male shop attendants take note: we don't want to discuss it any more than you do. Serve, give us change, and a sympathy smile. 

Oh, and a block of cadbury chocolates would also be appreciated. 

Making the call......

There are certain organisations I try to avoid contact with because I know that as soon as I make the phone call, it will require hours of therapy afterwards. At the very least a debrief to vent.  

Without mentioning the various companies, think tax, banking, superannuation, public healthcare and family benefit organisations. Makes you shudder at the thought of the phone call doesn’t it. If I ever find myself in need of making a call to these companies, I prepare myself well in advance with a bathroom visit, a glass of water and a comfy cushion.

As I am currently working as a contractor I had to supply various details to my new company including my superannuation number. This can be easily found on a piece of paper somewhere in my house if I had a few hours to spare or the inclination to search, and I could also call my old company and ask the friendly ladies in payroll for it. Or I could call the company which seemed the most logical thing to do. I procrastinated on this one because the thought of spending an hour on the phone listening to Enya was not an attractive one, but it was a nicer thought than begging the payroll ladies.

As it turns out, there was no pain in this phone call at all!

Not only was my call answered within 2 minutes by a real person (yes, they do exist), she was friendly, polite and able to help me. She didn’t make me feel like a burden to her day and there was no Enya on the hold music. Her language was positive and I could tell she was smiling while talking to me.

Thank you Cathy from BT Financial for restoring my faith in customer service in financial institutions.

Flying High with a Smile

When I was young, I wanted to be an air hostess. I saw the glamour in the make-up and uniforms, the extensive travel opportunities and a nice long term career opportunity for a woman.

In the past decade I have averaged 20 flights per year both domestic and international. That’s a decent amount of time spend above clouds watching the glamour, and establishing that it’s much harder than I thought; smiling while serving a glass of bubbles at 30,000 feet suddenly did not look like fun. Throw in a drunken arrogant passenger, and it all turns into a nightmare.

On a recent trip from Sydney to Melbourne, I was in awe of the male cabin steward who had been dished up multiple grumpy customers in one flight.

After making his well articulated announcements (with a smile), he walked up the aisle and noticed me wedged between two enormous men. I’m not a frail figure myself, but in between these guys, I was looking deathly anorexic. After take off, he came to my seat and offered me a place in business class which was empty. I’m not sure if that’s allowed, so I wont mention his name, or the airline for fear he may join the unemployment queue with me. Lets call him Jim.

On arrival into Melbourne, two business men reached up for their cabin luggage which were two huge orange boxes (Hermes no less) that had filled up the entire space. Jim assisted them in getting the boxes down, much to the angst of another male passenger.

Once most of the passengers alighted, the man proceeded to vent to Jim about the airline allowing people with excess cabin baggage on board without checking. He went into a tirade (I remained on board for the show) and was apoplectic with rage after a few minutes. His face was red and he was panting, I think there may have also been steam coming off his head. He started making threats of never flying that airline again and was going to use every form of media (social and otherwise) to talk badly about the airline.

Jim handled this beautifully. His body language was open, he looked the man in the face and used nods to acknowledge the mans complaints.

He allowed the man to vent. He didn’t try to butt in or stop in (there would be no use), and after the man had provided a suitable pause Jim spoke in calm tones.

Jim firstly acknowledged the mans concerns and thanked him for expressing them. Without being condescending, he then went on to explain the airline guidelines for cabin baggage and that the boxes were indeed the right size. He confirmed the boxes had been checked by airline.

He apologised to the man that as a passenger his experience was not favourable, it was obvious that Jim was very good at his job and was very loyal to the airline. I was thrilled that he didn’t fall into the trap of agreeing with the complaining customer.

Being an air hostess is “in your face” customer service in difficult conditions for a lengthy shift. Thankfully I reconsidered my career choice before experiencing this first hand.

Corporate Street Begging

Here is a personal challenge I throw out to everyone.

Walk down Pitt Street Mall (Sydney) on any given weekday between the hours of 10am and 5pm: avoid a backpacking hawker trying to sell you a fantastic deal in hair pampering packages.

I loathe the street “corporate” beggars trying to sell me a monthly donation to a worthy cause. It’s not that I don’t agree with the causes, I just hate being aggressively sold to.

This is not exclusive to Pitt St mall, many charity organisations are now resorting to using backpackers as street marketers on a commission base salary. I have no idea of the success rate, the training or the commission - and would love to get some insight into this. (anyone?)

Today I was on a mission, I only needed a couple of things from my local supermarket and had a firm plan on my attack: Walk into the store, buy my vine ripened tomatoes and walk out. Mission accomplished.

At the entrance were three charity branded polo-shirted women smiling and waiting to pounce.

Once eye contact had been made, it was obvious that I was going to be the target of an alpha-female backpacker with pen and clipboard.

“Before you say no......” she screamed from 5 metres away. I said “No” and kept walking.

In customer service, language (body language included) is crucial. Her mistake was using negative language. Before I even had a chance to speak, she had already told me that I’d said “no”.

When training my team of customer service executives, I was very keen on ensuring the language used was always positive with the aim in every phone call, “getting to yes”. My team were not salespeople, they were contact centre staff in emergency assistance, however the message was the same. The customer on the other end of the line had called for something, and my team were there to provide it. When it wasn’t possible to deliver what the customer wanted, the goal was to influence the customer to accepting what could be done for them. Even if it was nothing more than someone to listen to them.

As a customer and a manager, the words I never wanted to hear were:
- Unfortunately
- Impossible
- Cant
- No

I doubt I would have made a donation today to the corporate beggar regardless of the language she used, but it would have been a less aggressive “NO” back at her if the approach was laced with a positive sentiment.

Coffee Culture

When you find yourself a decent little coffee shop, you stick to it. You commit to income sharing so that it never ever closes. You don’t tell too many people about it, for fear it may become too popular and you lose your place in the queue (and here I am blogging about it!).

I found such a place conveniently located around the corner from my home.

The Little Marionette Cafe is run by a group of gorgeous young people who have a passion for coffee and great service. What first drew me to this coffee shop was not just the convenience of location but also the atmosphere. The tables are a little small, but an inner city terrace doesn’t allow for a dining tables and there is a lovely little room hidden behind a secret bookshelf that I have come to claim as my own. Chesterfield couches are guarded by kitsch deer heads and vintage mirrors.  

I’m bold enough to say its the best coffee in Sydney, I come here every morning for my fix. They roast their own, so while you drink you also get the heady aromas of Guatemalan, Ethiopian and every other type of great coffee you can think of.

What makes this place truly amazing is the staff. Walking in and finding a seat, you are greeted with friendly, funny and genuinely interested people. They remember your name, your coffee of choice and always ask about your day. In the 18months I have been coming here (every morning except on my travel trips) I have never encountered a rude tone.

This is a novelty in Sydney coffee shops. I think I will continue to income share until my retirement.


http://www.lilm.com.au/

Chocky Wocky - Wonky Service

Chocolate is my favourite pastime. I just love it. Smelling it, eating it, licking it, talking about it. I consider myself to be a kind of chocolate connoisseur. You could even say I am a chocolate snob, as much as I am a coffee snob. I can't do bad chocolate.

I live in Sydney, which means great chocolate is limited to a select few places. And then it gets discovered by the mainstream and becomes all too commercial with a million outlets. The special-ness of it goes.  You know which one I'm talking about right? The chocolate shop that started in a cute little terrace in Paddington and ended up in every Westfield's across Australia. Max Brennar's, the bald man. Although its on every corner, I still can't resist it every now and then for a warm huggie-mug treat.

Today being the day after boxing day and still a public holiday, our little family decided to go for a walk with the dog and treat ourselves to a hot chocolate in Newtown for our efforts. Despite being in the peak of summer, Sydney has not delivered the balmy weather of my childhood, and a hot chocolate is a very nice afternoon treat.

Son and I went in and found a neat little corner on the bar bench to settle. I got up to order and waited at the counter to be served. I suspect the man behind the counter was the manager, because out of the three he was the only one with a sense of authority about him. The other two were busy handing out coffees and generally looking busy. One of them came up beside me at the counter to grab the hot chocolates for a table and instead of asking me politely to move aside, he grunted "MOVE".

Excuse me? (yes, thats the correct term to use when you're asking someone to move out of the way).

The manager looked up and realised I wanted to order (thats why I normally stand at a counter), and nodded his head my way to motion for me to let him know what I wanted. At this point, I probably should have left, but the thought of disappointing my son after promising him a MB treat was too much. I handed over my money and took my number back to the bar bench to wait.

I twitted out my experience. And waited.

And waited.

When our hot chocolate huggie mugs were made, the manager decided to hand them over the top of the high bar bench, rather than walk them around to my young son and myself. I had to grab mine quickly and put it down to grab my sons before a boiling hot chocolate was poured all over him.

While son and I sat and dranked our huggie mugs (and yes, they were delicious) a few young local kids walked into the store and to the chocolate bar area where they were being very obvious about grabbing a few and pocketing them before walking out.

I did think of letting the manager know..... and then decided justice had been served.

Fleas and Swanky Hotel Rooms

I wasn’t born expecting high standards, in fact I was brought into a childhood where compromising my standards was considered the best possible avenue for me. So I don’t quite understand why I am now a stickler for excellent customer service, poor service is the very devil that eats at me.

Recently we had a house full of unwanted guests. Fleas. Tiny little black creatures that nip and bite at ankles and lower limbs and leave a trail of nasty red dots that required frequent scratching. I had legs with claw mark scars that attracted comments from strangers in coffee shops. My husband was away and it was the weekend, a hot and muggy Sydney hint of summer. I decided to pack up the kids and head to a city hotel with a rooftop swimming pool and escape the nasty devils in my house, but only after placing masses amounts of flea bombs in every room.

Checking into the hotel should have given me a warning of what I could expect, even after reading back to me my Sydney home address the desk clerk asked if this was my first time to Sydney. No, I live here. I was born here and apart from small sojourns to exotic lands, I have spent most of my life here. She handed me my swipe cards and went on to explain the charges on my credit card, the cost of the room and another $50 towards any incidentals, but that this would not be charged unless after checking out they discovered I had emptied the mini bar of snickers snacks and mini contreau bottles.

She then handed me a map of my city and reminded me to let her know if I needed directions or ideas for going out in Sydney.

The hotel room was heaven and the kids absolutely loved the novelty of spending a Sunday night in flee-free luxury. We swam all afternoon in a pool overlooking Hyde Park and I made a promise to myself that one day I would live like this forever, possibly in New York overlooking Central Park.

We checked out the following morning with a $12 charge for our snacks and then it was only a short stroll for me to my office in Paddington and a quick bus ride for the boys to school in the inner city.

A week later I noticed on my online bank statement that the $50 incident charge had been charged to my credit card so I called the hotel chain main number. After being passed around several customer service people (or customer non-service people as I call them), I eventually got a lady who spoke little English in blunt and abrupt tones. “What can I do for you today” was replaced with “What do you want” - so I explained my situation and the card charges and asked when it would be refunded. Hmmmmmmmm... it took me a few times to explain it, I even offered to put my request in writing and email it to her after going through it three more times. All for $50. If I had charged my time out to the hotel it would have exceeded the hotel room rate but for me it was the principal that mattered. And I wanted my money back. 

The woman told me I was advised during check in what the money was for, and that it wasnt actually in the hotels bank account but in a holding account until it was proven that I didn’t drink the mini bar dry. Explaining to her that it took less than three seconds to charge my card but over a week to check the fridge and refund it was lost on her. She eventually got agitated and told me “It was only $50”.

The sheer arrogance of someone devaluing my money like that was shocking. It may have only seemed like $50 to her, but to me that represented the hours I had to work to pay my bills and then have this disposable amount left over at the end. In all likelihood it was probably more than her hourly rate. And yet she felt righteous enough to make a comment that it is only $50.

The money was deposited the next day.

What would I have done in that situation if I were the call centre girl with a less-than-satisfied customer on the line?

To start with, I would have acknowledged her concern and expressed empathy for her. $50 is a lot of money to most people and in some cases it may be the difference between feeding a family that night or going without.

I would have explained the hotel policy of charging the card and asked if this was explained to the her on check in. I then would have offered to look into it for her and asked if she wanted to hold or would prefer a call back. Choice is King. As is communication.

The money was in my account the following day and after my experience with the customer service woman, I have to ask if this was the result of my call.

I doubt I will be staying at the Marriott again - despite the lovely room and rooftop swimming pool, the customer service on chasing my money was a real let down.