Tuesday, March 10, 2009


I had to leave work this morning to pick up my daughter because she's covered in spots. After two buses home, I picked her up from pre-school and drove her home. After an afternoon of "Lady and the Tramp" (interrupted by the window cleaner and a stupid saleswoman who didn't want to take no for an answer and asked for my address even though she was standing at my front door in front of the number with the street sign behind her. She can't read because we have one of the "No Salespeople" stickers in the window) and CBeebies.

A trip to the doctor confirmed our fears about chicken pox, although she's had it before. After picking up mummy from the station (a special "thank you" to the dickheads who continue to park at the entrance to the car park instead of IN the car park. We literally scraped past one Chelsea tractor but fuck 'em - your car's worth more than mine and parked stupidly so I hope the damage to your vehicle wasn't trivial) and dropping them home I head back out to Asda to pick up a prescription for Calamine Cream and get some petrol. There's is where the "fun" begins.

I get to the Pharmacy at the Halbeath Road branch of Asda in Dunfermline. I wait what seems like an eternity to get served. During this time I fill in the form on the back (thinking this might help the harassed-looking staff) and wait to be served. Finally, I'm served - it is now 1745. The lady looks at the script, turns and picks up a jar of cream from behind the counter. Instead of handing to me, she passes it to her colleague and turns to me to say "that'll be 20 minutes"! I'm speechless. She then, thinking I'm half daft, writes "6.05pm" on the collection receipt.

Incredulous, I wander off to find some bin bags and look at the DVDs. At 6pm exactly I return and take a seat. Having been told the script wouldn't be ready until 5 past I sit down and wait for my name to be called. And I wait...and I wait...

At 6.35pm one of the assistants finally asks me my surname - she may have been prompted by the steam coming out of my ears and face like thunder that met her question. I ask her rather firmly and in front of about seven other customers why it's taken her 35 minutes to ask me my surname, what did she think I was waiting there for - a bus? I ask why if they're so busy that people have to wait 20 minutes for a script, even when it's on a shelf behind them, does she have time for a 10-minute chat with a passing friend? I let her know in no uncertain terms how piss-poor I think the service and that I'll be making a complaint. (I almost failed to mention that while the backlog, like Ulrika Jonsson, continued to mount, the pharmacist actually pissed off somewhere else for 7-8 minutes too.)

Yet another long queue, now being told it'll be 30 minutes to get a prescription, is waiting as I storm off in the direction of Customer Services. The queue is quiet and has no doubt been hanging on to every word of the rather one-sided conversation. The clueless assistant seemed to indicate that it was ME who should have informed HER that I was there (I was sitting less than 3 feet away from her for 35 minutes). Not once did she enquire if I was being served, as any customer assistant worth their salt would have done. I finally received the cream some 50 minutes after I handed the prescription over. That, to me, is unacceptable.

I tried to stayed calm as a rather panicky Customer services assistant tried in vain to locate the Manager. After 5 minutes he showed up. As calmly as I could, I laid the facts in front of him, gave him my details and told him I was off to administer the cream to my chicken pox-ridden four year old. He said he would be in touch. I decided against getting petrol at Asda after all (fuck 'em) and drove home, still fuming. (I went to Tesco to get the fuel while the Good Lady Wife was watching Heston Bloomingheck.) Aaaarrrggghhh!!!!!

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