Hellooooo! My goodness, it’s been so long! I haven’t seen you in forever! How have you been?
Me? Oh well last time we talked was the night before we moved, wasn’t it? Yes, it was Moving Day Eve and boy let me tell you, the last five weeks have seen a thing or two.
My bestie, Tate, met us at the airport and we stuffed four cases and ourselves into her teeny tiny car. Then we went to pick up Maximus (who was not impressed with us leaving him in a carrier at the airport) and squeezed him in the car as well. We arrived at our unit and met the angriest elevator I have ever known, even worse than the shuddery- juddery elevator in a Sydney theatre I once did a production in.
This elevator has no time for you and does not care if you need it to stay open for three people and cases to get into. It opens for a grand total of three seconds before violently closing and woe betide you if you stick a foot in the door to stop it closing- you can kiss your toes goodbye, as poor Tate discovered (don’t worry, she has her toes. It’s pure hyperbole. Seriously though, the elevator does not stop for feet). In order for the elevator to stay open long enough, you must have one person standing inside and repeatedly pressing the Open Door symbol, which we all know looks like this: < >
This elevator also hates being leaned on. Inside there is a railing, which should one lean upon, the elevator will make a terrifying scraping noise and then not move. Get in the elevator quick and stand perfectly still if you wish to reach the next floor in relative peace.
Tate kindly gave us a bunch of furniture that was sitting in their carport to see us through. An outdoor table and chairs, a couch which needed one hell of a vacuum (hats off to Boyfie who bravely tackled that) and a little black upright cupboard thingy. Thank goodness for good friends, right?
I won’t bore you with the details of moving the furniture and doing the necessary shop- we’ve all been there and done that, we all know how frustrating it is.
I will however tell you the tale of the Induction Stove Top.
The second or third day of living in our new pad, I bought a pot from a well known supermarket that I used to work for. Assuming my new stove was a ceramic (it certainly looks it), I bought any ol’ pot- cheap and nasty until I can fulfill my dream of proper cookware (one day I’ll have a six burner gas stove and enamel cookware… one day).
The pot came back home and later that night I went to make pasta. After digging out the instruction manual for how to turn the damn stove on, the kettle was boiled and the pot placed on one of the burners. Pressing the buttons as the manual instructed, we were greeted with a flashing symbol that didn’t seem to be anywhere in the manual. I had happened to invite Tate over as she had helped us out so much.
Tate looked over the manual and made the discovery that the stove is Induction. In all honesty, I don’t know the difference between a ceramic and induction stove, they look exactly the same and the operating system seems to be the same (touch buttons, buttons make shit happen). Tate then looked up what sort of pots can work on the stove and lo and behold, it wasn’t the one I had bought. We ended up having instant noodles that night, but hey ho, I had planned on pasta and there was nothing else.
A day or two later, I returned the pot and the packaging (which had not been torn up when opening the pot) to the well known supermarket. I knew I didn’t need the receipt, but I took it anyway just in case. Luckily I did, as the dunderhead who served me had not a clue what he was doing. The following then ensued:
“Hi, I need to return this pot. It doesn’t actually work on my stove, so it hasn’t been used and the packaging is all intact.”
“Hmm…” Dunderhead scratches his head. “Can I see the receipt?”
Dunderhead examines receipt. “I just need to check with my manager, one moment.”
I wait patiently as he disappears. I know for a fact I can return this without the receipt and if he chooses not too, then I will turn into the customer I absolutely hate- the one who demands to see the manager.
Dunderhead returns and says, “Usually I’m not supposed to, because we can’t reuse the pot, it’ll got to waste, but I will this time.”
Now, I am not the most Greenie person out there, but it wrankles me big time at how much waste happens at these places and I was not letting this pot go to waste without a fight.
“I don’t understand why it can’t go back on the shelf. It hasn’t been used because it can’t be used and the packaging is perfectly reusable.”
“Yeah but any opened packaging we’re not supposed to take back.”
I decide to do what I hate doing in these situations, having been on his side of the counter. I get it, I know, policy is policy, but where I worked, that could be refunded and returned to the shelf with no harm or fuss. What the hell was up with this store?
“Look mate, I used to work here. I know the procedure. Perhaps our bosses worked a little differently, but I know for a fact I can return this without a receipt and that it can in fact go back on the shelf. Please just give me my refund.”
I’m not normally one to invite confrontation unless I’m absolutely confident I’m in the right. I hate being that customer, because I hate those kinds of customers when I’m working. I usually have sympathy, respect and patience for those in customer service, because god knows too many people look down on them and generally the ones looking after you have no control over anything and so there’s no point getting pissy with them. What you can get pissy about is attitude and this guy just wrankled me off.
Now, for something different.
As I committed to doing 52 posts, 52 posts there shall be! Plus an extra five for every week I missed posting because of not having internet. How’s that for commitment? Wednesday is still blog day, so keep an eye out this coming Wednesday for my next post.