Last week I lost it. I flipped out. Actually if I’m being totally truthful I didn’t just flip: I f***ing flipped. Like Boris Johnson, I had a Vaz-attack of epic, expletive-laden telephone rage. Having recently received the Transport for London form to renew and pre-pay my annual (discounted) congestion charge, I’d managed to get my application in with two weeks to spare before the old one expired. I’d duly ferreted out and enclosed a recent household utility bill. I’d filled in my mobile, work and home contact numbers and given my credit card details. I’d posted it off and as far as I was concerned the job was done, dusted and crossed off my dreary ‘to do’ list. For once I actually felt quite smug and impressed by my own efficiency.
Last Thursday evening I drove home from work and found an ominous brown envelope waiting on the mat. Inside was a short letter politely informing me I’d been ‘unsuccessful’ in my application. I’d been rejected. Blackballed. Sent to the back of the traffic jam. Just to add injury to insult it wasn’t my proof of residency that was being questioned — I was rejected merely for being moronic. I’d failed to tick the tiny box authorising payment to be taken from my credit card. My failure to tick the box meant I’d blithely spent the last four days cruising in and out of congestion zones without paying for the privilege.
I got straight on to the Transport for London telephone helpline. After listening to unhelpful automated ‘options’ — surely one of the most irritating words in the English language — I eventually got transferred to a human being called Anne. By now my stress levels had rocketed and I was furiously stomping around the kitchen. Although Anne had the advantage of owning both a voice and a brain, talking to her was not dissimilar to being trapped in a Kafkaesque treacle-treading dream.
‘But why did no one ring me and tell me I was about to be rejected?’ I whined. ‘You had all my details on the form. Why do you bother asking for them if you don’t intend using them in situations like this?’
‘I’m afraid it’s not our normal policy to contact customers by telephone,’ replied Anne soothingly.
‘Then. Why. Do. You. Make. Us. Give. You. All. Our. Numbers?’ I asked very, very slowly in an abortive attempt to keep my temper under control.
Anne understood my ‘concerns’ (another meaningless bureaucratic word) but she was nevertheless sticking to the script.
‘If you fill in another form we will process your request. It will however take ten working days to complete…’
‘But I don’t want to fill in another f***ing form,’ I snapped unreasonably. ‘I’ve already filled in the boring form once. I don’t mean to swear at you but I just want you to pick up a pencil and tick the f***ing box for me. Take my money. Surely it’s not too much to ask. I’m begging you to take my f***ing money. Tick the little box for me. Please.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not authorised to do that,’ explained Anne calmly.
‘No one need ever know,’ I found myself whispering. ‘It could stay our little secret.’
‘I’m going to transfer you to my colleague,’ said Anne. My heart sank. We all know ‘transfer’ is just a euphemistic way of saying f*** off.
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