How important is my call, really?

There is no greater tool to distort the passing of time, than to be placed on hold by a call centre. The music is too tinny to be upbeat and even though the voice over is smiley and warm, it leads to thoughts of homicide. I made the tempting mistake of thinking I could make a "quick" call. As the minutes passed, it became an operatic melodrama.

I did the tracking on the website first. I expected to see something more recent than a visit to a western Sydney suburb three days ago. Was my package still there? Was it somewhere else? The website couldn't tell me.

I rang the number. To get to speak to someone, I first had to go through the same tracking process on the phone. I ended up in the same place, but this time, when I reached the end, I was able to say the word "consultant" so I could be placed on hold.

Well I was on hold for 20 minutes. That tinny music blared, only to be interrupted by overly cheerful announcements telling me I could get the answer from the website! I was at work and filed emails while I waited. That was the most useful part of the experience.

After 20 minutes a woman answered. I told her the story. She told me my parcel was in that western Sydney suburb. I asked her what it was still doing there. She suddenly noticed that it arrived there three days ago. She said it was probably on a truck and might still be delivered. I could tell she was faking. I asked her how she knew it was on a truck. She confessed that she didn't know; she was hoping. I pressed the point. She sighed. She asked me to confirm my business account details. I asked her what she meant. She told me the name of the workplace I was in. (The phones are jolly clever these days! We're all being watched, apparently.) She sighed, saying that she would need to put my personal details in. I provided them. This yielded nothing. She told me I was in the wrong section. I told her I said the word "consultant" when asked and here I was. She sighed again. She would have to put me through to another section. She couldn't do anything. I reminded her how long I had been on hold and that I wasn't really looking forward to another age of tinny music and falsely optimistic announcements from the voice over girl.

She was gone. I was on hold. The minutes ticked by. Slower than if I had been doing something enjoyable. My email in box was looking really good. I was scared I would run out of emails to file. It's amazing how much filing you can do in 30 minutes.

Neil said hello. I said hello. Another man said hello.

The line was crossed. The other man had been on hold for ages. Neil was confused. I was running out of emails to file. Neil concluded that we had a crossed line. He sensibly declared that he could only talk to one of us at a time. My details were the ones he had on the computer screen in front of him. YES! He would need to transfer Jamal.

With Jamal banished, Neil asked me how he could help. I was about to answer, but another man chimed in. I soon learned that his name was Eric. Neil explained that we had a crossed line and again demonstrated how clever he was. Eric disappeared. We started again. This time Brittany was also in the conversation. I started to laugh maniacally.

Neil concluded that this was a problem and said that we would both have to hang up. I was now 45 minutes into the phone call and hadn't resolved the issue. I wasn't giving up without a fight. I told Neil that someone would need to call me back. He promised they would; then said if they didn't I'd need to call back. I said it was unacceptable that there might be a possibility I would have to call back. I commented on how patient and good humoured I'd been so far.

Forty-five minutes later, my phone had not rung.

I called again. I went through the tracking process on the phone. I said "consultant". I went on hold.

By the time the call was answered by a person, I had run my errands in town, bought groceries and was on the train home, barrelling towards the inner west black spot where all phone calls drop out. North Melbourne is apparently in the wilderness of Melbourne.

I explained the black spot problem to Sue and asked if she would call me back if the call dropped out. She told me that wasn't possible. I got off the train. I stood on the platform as Sue clicked away on her keyboard and sighed and gave me no new information. Sue told me she really didn't know where the parcel was. She told me I couldn't complain until three business days after the EDD. That's the estimated delivery date. The EDD was the very day that I was filing my emails, having brief encounters with men called Neil and Jamal and Eric.

I asked how I make a complaint.

Sue told me I just needed to call. There was no hint of irony either.

This morning I woke up to an email from the recipient of the parcel to say it had arrived. I could have just asked, but had not wanted to spoil the surprise.

Happy Mother's Day Mum! Thanks for being my proofreader (after publication).

What are they flogging: how to tell if you're in regional Australia

Visiting Shepparton this week allowed me to sample the local television ads.  It's one of the things that I notice as a place marker in this increasingly monocultural world and I always like to take a look.  Of course, while I was doing this, I also noticed some other things about television ads that are currently playing.  Generally, I'm a watcher of the ABC and so don't see many ads, but there are two shows that I'm currently watching on commercial television:  The Voice on Channel 9 and Downton Abbey on Channel 7.

If you turn on the television and see someone who is clearly the business owner rather than an actor, you know you're in regional Australia.  Vin may be the world's greatest pest controller, but does that mean he makes for great TV?  No it doesn't.  Vin should stick to hunting down cockroaches and torturing mice.  Sometimes, you won't see the business owner in the ad, you'll hear them instead.  I do occasional voice-over work so I know what we cost, but I also know that we're sooooo worth it!  There is an art to doing voice-over, just as there is an art to lubricating a car engine.  How about we respect each other's skills and stick to what we're great at?

If you're not sure where you are, turn on the television and put it on a commerical channel.  What's being advertised?  If it's sheep dip and herbicide you're in farming and grazing territory.  If there's an actual farmer running his (for he's always a bloke) hands through the dirt or the fleece on the sheep's back, then double your chances you're in regional Australia.  And double the distance you are from a capital city.

I first noticed this phenomenon when I was at boarding school in Toowoomba.  There was an ad for fertiliser to help your sunflower crop along.  It featured an animated sunflower which uttered a groan as it shrivelled and died before our very eyes.  The voice-over man gravely warned us that we could avoid this happening to our sunflower crops.  Although I didn't have then, haven't had since, don't have now and probably won't have in the future, a sunflower crop, I remember this ad vividly.  I think it was the humour.  After we heard the sound of a dying sunflower, the voice-over man's script required him to say, "Let's hear that again", forcing us to relive the terrible sounds of a dying sunflower. Imagine if you had a whole paddack of dying sunflowers?  The sound would be deafening.  And hilarious.  Unfortunately, while I remember the ad, I don't remember the product.  What will I do if I ever do grow sunflowers?  How will I save them from certain death?

Sheep suffering from all kinds of unimaginable afflictions also made strange sounds in television ads.

Unlikely copy writing in television ads is another clue that you're in regional Australia.  This one can be tricky though - it could also mean it's 1 o'clock on Saturday morning and you know you'll regret opening that second bottle of red wine.  A prime example I noticed this week was "Grouse Grout".  It even had a jingle.  Grout isn't usually front of my mind.  If I was in a situation where I was required to think about grout I'm not sure that "grouse" would be in my top ten list of Essential Grout Qualities.  But what would I know? Nothing.  About grout.  Anyway.

Along with locally produced ads, a smattering of other ads was also screened.  Two stood out: KFC's campaign about canola oil and Proactiv's pitch to teenage boys.

KFC's latest pitch hinges on the "word" 'goodification'.  Blah.  It's so horrible that they have an explanatory clip on You Tube.  Years of poor teaching of grammar is clearly paying dividends now as the generation of kids who were taught on the basis of "it doesn't matter how you spell it as long as everyone understands what you mean" grow up and start working for ad agencies.  That's all I have to say about that one.

Proactiv is a skin care brand aimed at acne afflicted teenagers.  Usually they target girls, so it was refreshing to see the pitch to the fellas.  It featured a BMX bike riding star.  He talked about how he likes bumps on a BMX track, but not when they're on his face.  Talk about bumpy scripting!  He talked about how his acne made him feel.  I was right there with him until he told me that his acne was affecting his BMX racing.  Seriously.

There was a time when ads were great.  They had great jingles or were funny or were memorable for good reasons.  Can't think of any right now.

What ads have you noticed lately?  Do have a favourite ad? Or what's the one that makes you yell at the television?