Customer "service"

I'm not normally one to complain excessively, but when faced with appalling customer service from a corporate behemoth - I'm talking about BT - that's a completely different matter.

If you've ever tried to change broadband suppliers, you may well have had a similar experience to what I've been through during the past five weeks.

In theory, it's quite simple. You phone your current internet service provider to ask for a migration code (MAC), which your new supplier then uses to switch your service over. According to the industry's code of conduct, the ISP should provide you with your MAC within 5 working days.

It should be simple, shouldn't it? But, of course, it's anything but.

Apparently most ISPs have a tendency to drag their feet over issuing MACs, presumably in the hope that most people will eventually give up and stay with them. Now I don't know whether BT is significantly better or worse than, say, Sky or Tiscali or Talk Talk, but what I do know is that I don't exactly have a warm glow about them.

The timeline goes as follows:

Nov 6th: Requested a MAC from BT's Customer Options team. I was told they would email it to me within 5 working days, in line with the code of conduct.

Nov 18th: Follow-up call. Polite service, profuse apologies, and a promise that it would be sorted out within 48 hours.

Nov 20th: Ditto.

Nov 25th: Another call, and a promise that I would either receive the MAC or someone would contact me within 48 hours. Registered a complaint with a manager anyway, expressing my disappointment.

Dec 1st: Still nothing. Emailed BT's High Level Escalation complaints team (hleteam@bt.com) after the phone number I had found for them didn't work. Received an automated email response promising they would get back to me within two working days. They didn't - which I personally find even more offensive than their general inaction. If you promise to call someone back, you call them back; that's basic courtesy.

Dec 11th (today): In total exasperation, I launched a three-pronged approach, thus:

1. I phoned BT again, stating clearly that I expected action within one week, or I would also be switching my landline supplier.

2. I then phoned the Ofcom and registered a complaint which they promised to pass on to BT. (Ofcom doesn't actually have the power to do anything, but by escalating it with the ISP there's more chance they'll actually sit up and take notice.)

3. Finally, I emailed BT's chief executive (ian.livingston@bt.com) directly at 8.58am, politely summarising the various communications I had made, and expressing my disappointment at the lack of any positive outcome or even feedback. I received an email response at 9.01am, a call from his PA at 9.30am, and a MAC by email and accompanying phone call by 11am. (Apparently the MAC had been generated four weeks ago, but never sent to me - go figure.)

That's two hours from my email to a surprisingly swift resolution - after five weeks of frustration. Hopefully that should now be the end of it. Even if it isn't, I now at least have a direct line to someone high up in BT's organisation who has been both responsive and effective. You can't ask for more than that.

Isn't it funny how quickly things happen when you cut out the middle man? Makes you wonder why companies invest so much in customer service infrastructure when the only way to get things done is to contact the man at the top.

Times change

... And we change with the times. It's an old Latin saying, and one which remains as true now as it was then.

Reflecting back on Isaac's first year, I always knew that life would change in many different ways, but there are so many things I do now as a matter of course that I would never have done a year ago. Here are ten off the top of my head.

1. Thinking that going to bed by 10pm is normal. (And that staying up after 11pm qualifies as “a big night”.)

2. Waking up at 5.30am on a Saturday after six hours’ uninterrupted sleep and thinking, “That counts as a lie-in.”

3. Being able to do household chores one-handed, while holding a kicking 20-pound weight with the other hand.

4. Singing nursery rhymes in public.

5. Maintaining a normal conversation while changing one of your son’s speciality super-dirty, super-smelly nappies.

6. Taking your boy out for a walk at 8am in the freezing cold and pouring rain, just so he can get some sleep.

7. Taking an hour to do what is normally a ten minute drive, so your son can get a much-needed nap.

8. Planning your entire life around your child’s sleep and meal times.

9. Using words like “botheration”, “drat” and “fiddlesticks” so your child doesn’t learn swear words.

10. Spelling out swear words when words like “botheration”, “drat” and “fiddlesticks” just won’t do the job.

Oliver Postgate RIP

A big part of my childhood - and, I suspect, that of many other people in their 30s and 40s - died yesterday.

Oliver Postgate, creator of much-loved children's TV programmes such as Ivor the Engine, The Clangers, Bagpuss and Noggin the Nog, died yesterday aged 83. Apparently he died peacefully.

Postgate was one half of the Smallfilms team, alongside artist Peter Firman. Together, the pair worked in a disused cowshed in Kent - a far cry from today's high-tech CGI production houses - to create classic shows which live on in the memories of millions of children-turned-adults: the marvellous mechanical mouse organ in Bagpuss; the surreal, swanee whistle conversation of the Clangers, (the show inspired the name of the early 90s indie band The Soup Dragons); Postgate's dodgy Welsh accent as Jones the Steam ("Come now, Ivor!").

Bagpuss was voted the top children's programme of all time in a 1998 poll, and ranked fourth (with The Clangers 13th) in Channel 4's 100 Greatest Kids' TV Shows in 2001, holding its own among such exalted company as The Simpsons, Danger Mouse, Grange Hill and Mr Benn.

Contemporary children's programmes may be more sophisticated, exciting and expensive than Bagpuss, Ivor and their ilk, but somehow they will never have the same simple charm of an era when two men in a shed were able to both entertain and shape the lives of an entire generation.

Rest in peace.

Oliver Postgate's obituary on BBC News

One!

Where has the time gone?

Our lovely little boy was one year old on Saturday (technically, at 8.50 that evening), and I genuinely cannot believe an entire year has passed. It seems like only a few weeks ago that I started the day working from home and generally pottering around, and finished it going to bed, exhausted, with a tiny baby sleeping next to us.

Still, it means he’s been going to a lot of parties at the moment, what with most of our local friends being other parents who had babies around the same time as us.

I’d love to know what Isaac thinks about all this. He’s probably a bit bemused at the moment, wondering why he keeps getting dressed up in his posh togs - his ‘clubbing shirt’, as I like to call it – and being dragged to all these gatherings with lots of his friends where there’s lots of food and presents. And cake. No doubt he’s also wondering why he’s suddenly got a mountain of new toys to play with. At the moment, the popular choice is anything with wheels, which basically means planes, trains and automobiles. As his nana says: he’s all boy.

Being a December baby, in little more than a fortnight he’ll be at more gatherings where there will be lots of food and presents, only with turkey rather than cake. And trees with lots of shiny hanging bits for him to pull down. (I’m really looking forward to that; it’ll be like having a cat, only you can’t put him out for the night.)

And then, just when he’s starting to get used to the party-and-presents routine, it will go quiet for the next eleven months.

Anyway, this last weekend, there was Amelia’s birthday party Sunday lunchtime. (Bad timing: it started just when he desperately needed a nap, he whinged for most of it and then only perked up towards the end.) Notable achievement: running over the birthday girl with a walker. (Note to self: get comprehensive insurance for Zac and protect his no-claims bonus.)

And before that we had his own party down in Ferndown on the Saturday, a rare chance for the grandparents (both real and adoptive) to get together and shower him with the gift of coloured plastic, which then took about ten hours to load into the car. (True to form, Zac got tired and I had to take him out for a long walk to get him to sleep. Thanks, boy.)

This coming weekend, we’re going to a joint birthday party for the NCT group, after which I’m planning to breathe a (short) sigh of relief before launching into Christmas. And beer.

Yes, it’s hectic, with all these parties. Yes, it can be a bit of a nightmare logistically (especially given last week’s unexpected hospital stay). But is it worth it? Well, to see my little boy playing happily with one of his new toys, only to look up with a beaming smile and shout “Da-ee!” as I walk into the room … as the Mastercard ads say: that’s priceless.

Rite of passage: update

Isaac was discharged yesterday afternoon, much to the relief of both his parents.

By the time I got home, having collected his antibiotics - no champagne for him at his birthday party, then! - he was all smiles, haring around the house and rediscovering favourite toys with an enthusiasm utterly out of proportion to the two days he had been away from them.

I guess that means he was glad to be home, too.

Better still, Heather and I have just both had an uninterrupted night's sleep - nine whole hours! - for the first time since Zac was born. No doubt it was just a one-off and tonight we'll be back to the usual middle-of-the-night routine, but you've got to appreciate these small mercies when you can. We wouldn't have it any other way.

P.S. Oh my God, he's one tomorrow! Time flies, eh?

Rite of passage

Most parents go through it with their children sooner or later.

In our case, it’s happened in the week leading up to Isaac’s first birthday.

I’m talking about your child’s first hospital stay.

After a restless night – nothing unusual there - Zac woke up on Tuesday morning with what was quickly diagnosed over the phone as ballonitis. (I won’t go into the gruesome detail here, but let’s just say it’s an infection which only males can have. You fill in the gaps.)

Our GP then confirmed it as the worst case she had ever seen – whatever happened to having a reassuring bedside manner? – and sent Heather and Zac off to the Royal Berks to be seen by a specialist. After the customary several hours of to-ing and fro-ing, Zac was admitted and put on intravenous antibiotics.

And that’s where both he and Heather have been ever since - 48 hours and counting – with me shuffling backwards and forwards mornings and evenings between work (Bracknell), home (Thatcham) and hospital (Reading) with a constant supply of clothes, toys, books and cheerful supportiveness (except for the bit where I whinge about the traffic).

Actually, it’s been a rite of passage for Heather in more than one way, as she herself had never spent a night in hospital either. (Zac was born at home.) Of course, it’s all old hat to me; as either an in-patient or out-patient I go to hospital in the same way that other people go on holidays. (Come to think of it, I’m surprised I don’t have a commemorative bed named after me somewhere.)

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to have been overly traumatic. He wasn’t admitted with a broken leg, respiratory problems or something life-threatening, which is a good starting point. Sure, he found it very unsettling at first, and even though he was better yesterday Heather still ended up resorting to driving him around in the middle of the night to stop him crying and waking up everyone else on the ward, but since those first few hours he’s shown much more of his happy self: smiling at the nurses (it’s more like flirting, really), watching TV, playing with toys and crawling around getting in everyone’s way. And staring out of the window going “Whee!” or “Rah-a-rah” (“round and round”) as cars go past on the road. (Well, he is a boy, after all.)

With a bit of luck he’ll be discharged later today, as the inflammation has now subsided significantly. It will be good to have them both back home, where they belong and can feel comfortable.

From my perspective, it’s been a bit tricky. I want to be there and help as much as I can, but you can’t be there 24/7 or else you end up stepping on each other’s toes.

And then there’s always the small matter of the real world (i.e. work).

One thing I can say for sure is that my priorities have definitely changed. There was never any question this week that I was going to put my family first and work commitments second. That’s not to say that I would have prioritised work over a personal or family crisis before Zac came along, more that nowadays there is no need to even make a conscious decision about it, or any guilt about whatever loose threads I may have to tie up later.

Work to live, not live to work: it may be a bit of a cliché, but it’s more relevant – and true – than ever these days.