When shopping goes wrong....

It's now just over 5 months since I've returned from my trip over the pond and have naturally well & truly settled back into life home. To be honest, it didn’t take much, just a few episodes of Great British Bake Off & a swift pint and I got right back into the swing of things on this side of the pond. I’ve noticed only a few differences between my life here and there, however one has popped to the fore of late, that of the shopping experience. Now, as I have described here previously, I love an American shop and not just because of the ‘ethnic vegetable’ aisle. They just know how to do oh so well, and oh so much better than here in Blighty. Whether it’s friendly customer service (none of them sales assistants we know so well over here in the UK who would rather gouge their own eyes out with the pointy end of a hanger than offer any form of help) or way advanced online shopping (my mate in San Francisco orders milk… FROM AMAZON!) the Yanks just do it right, as my recent forays into the British high street have witnessed.

Just looking for the cream, don't mind me.

Let us first tackle that bastion of the British Empire, good ole M&S. Recently a friend with somewhat more indulgent pudding tastes than myself (though we will allow her as she is currently 8 months pregnant, thus entitled to cram in all the puddings she likes into the very small space that is left in her ever expanding, baby filled midsection) took me on a foray into the glistening dessert aisle of St Michael. Gleefully, she looked at me with only one question in her eyes....'profiteroles?'. Naturally I acquiesced, after all, who am I to deny the dairy wants of a pregnant woman, plus liking a bargain, we had clocked they were 25% off so it would be rude not to. However our calorifically laden joy was rapidly brought to an end by the discovery of an absence of cream in our puds! Quel horreur! What is a profiterole without the cream? It’s just a role! A chocolate covered, dry role at that, lacking in all creamy profit, and quite frankly, what is the point of that? We knew it was 25% off, but we certainly didn’t expect that 25% discount be at the expense of the ingredients. And while M&S managers were certainly happy to recompense with yet more profiteroles, an outcome which my mate and I were certainly not displeased with, it was a situation I could never see happening down at my dad’s local Shoprite, if only because US food seems to be packed with all kinds of bonus calories I’d never heard of previously, as opposed to M&S’ sneaky scheme of stealing expected ones away. 

For our next culprit, let us look no further than online, for it was here that I was on the receiving end of such lack of organization and chaos that even Amazon would hang their head. As I said, Americans do online shopping well. It’s there, at the click of a mouse, and the only issues I ever had with it stateside was finding a UPS delivery person strong enough to bring my box of goodies direct to my greedy little arms. The US has embraced online shopping in a way this country is only getting to grips with. From next day delivery without any hassle (I’m looking at you Royal Mail) to the plethora of goods available to order from the security of your onesie and armchair, the US does it well. Unlike a certain UK retailer who did very little to help, and quite a lot to hinder (though I recognize as a marketing slogan? Not so catchy, albeit quite apt). They had recently run an advertising campaign which brought to my attentions a certain furry, leopard print coat. I know, I’m North London’s answer to Bet Lynch and v proud of it too. I coveted that coat the way my pregnant mate covets profiteroles (and we’ve all seen how THAT turns out!) and joy of joys, there it was online, ready for my debit card details, positively glimmering with the potential of trashy nights out in a leopard spotted haze. I ordered, I waited, I waited some more, then rang customer services only to be told it was ‘stuck in the system’ and now, unfortunately no longer available. My hopes of nights out on the town in all my Bet Lynch glory were thwarted! Or so I thought until I was told it would be coming back into stock shortly. PHEW I thought to myself. So I waited, until sure enough, it came back into stock. Joy of joys once more I thought as I ordered again. And joyous it was indeed, for about 18 hours until my order was cancelled once again, due to lack of stock. By now I was fuming, surely a live stock update aint THAT hard for one of the UK’s biggest retailers? Recompensed with a £15 off my next purchase (as if!) and following a pointless early morning dash to a store that didn’t have stock despite Customer Services’ assertions to the contrary (apologies to all Lea Valley shoppers perturbed by the sight of an unleopard clad, raging Sophie stalking through the car park) I placed a desperate last ditch order. You’ll be thrilled to hear, 10 days later I eventually laid my hands on my latest furry friend of a coat, and joyous I am too. In fact, if you’ve read this far am sure you’re equally joyous, if only at finishing this tale of woe. So please, do reward yourself with tea and cake, you deserve it.

The results of Tesco Rage. I empathise entirely. 

So, that takes me back to where I started, shopping. It’s crap over here. Why is that? Is it a service thing? The US does customer service so well, whereas the service industry in this country seems to be filled with all the gloom and reluctance of a funeral director dragged to a vampires & vixens Halloween party. Or perhaps the answer lies in the fact that consumerism is what the US was built on (proved by the very fact I had to give over details of my bank balance before I was last let in). The UK, what was that built on? Well, tea obvs, the broken backs of the working classes & any country we took a gimlet eyed liking to, and old Roman remains (& let it just be said, the Romans were far better at viaducts and vomitoriums than retail parks). But tea, rubbled remains and the shattered dreams of colonialism do not a happy retail industry make, as my recent adventures in consumerism have witnessed. So listen up UK shops, SORT IT OUT, and pronto, otherwise I’m putting on my leopard print coat and initiating project vomitorium in aisle 12. 

Twonky humans & not so wonky driving

So, it's been a while since my last blog, what can I say? I've only just made it down from that cloud bleedin nine up there, or should I say the Cloud Nine Ringroad, what with only going and passing my driving test! *beams incoherently*

Yes, I know, I've been harking on a while, all gears, clutch control, freedom of the open road n that, but with many hours of practice, one failed test (I like to think of it as a practice for the real thing) and thankfully, one successful one, I've only gone & cracked it! Oh, and by the way, while we're here, let us just discuss that practice test where the vicious examiner made me do a parallel park as my manoeuvre. Not too hard one would think, until it transpires she wants me to do it backwards UP A HILL! Even my highway hardened, vehicularly experienced pals admit that is quite the challenge. Personally, I just think the prune mouthed examiner took a dislike to me, demanding such a ridiculously hard manoeuvre. After all, most drivers I know would just turn around and do it forwards if they were really determined to get that space, or more likely drive on to find somewhere else to park. But hey ho, I'm not bitter.... AT ALL *inwardly fumes*

So where was I? Ah yes, the hard work. It's been quite the slog really, but also, quite the achievement. You see, the last time I can say that I have studied, practiced and stressed my substantial tush off about an exam, well, it were quite the while ago. Longer than I care to admit to be fair, but let it just be said that dinosaurs weren't long off roaming the A406*. And studying, revising, practicing, well that's a young uns game innit? It goes hand in hand with GCSEs, UCAS forms and optimistic rosy cheeked faces, but whereas learning to drive is something most associated with young uns, staying alive & being safe on the roads is not. After all, although young drivers only account for 1.5% of licence holders, they account for 12% of serious and fatal crashes and drivers aged 17-23 are TWICE as likely to die in a car crash than those aged 40-49. Yikes! No wonder insurance for recently qualified drivers is so eye wateringly expensive. When I look at it like that, perhaps its just as well I waited, even more so when you consider that a recent UK study predicted that young people would have 9% fewer crashes if they delay learning to drive by a year at 18 instead of 17 years old, and a further 8% fewer crashes if they delay until 19 years old. By my maths, and as it apparently decreases by 1% every year, that either means at my ripe ole age, I'll have 45% fewer crashes than a 17 year old, or 0%. I can't quite figure it out.  Now I could be entirely wrong as I was never very good at maths (that's another thing for them young rosy cheeked among us) but I think them odds aint too bad. 

Now I will say, the older you get, the harder it is to pass (that rosy cheeked optimism has got something going for it). DSA statistics state there is a difference of over 17% in men passing at age 17 to those aged 50, which only increases to 20% with women in the same age ranges. So we may not pass as quickly (as my, ahem, 'practice' test showed), but there is something that the older learner brings to the table when learning to drive.... that of the power of cynicism. Or as the DSA puts it awareness of potential hazards and speeds. We know, from our many years of being passengered, just how big a twonk humans can be. Whether its dozy schoolkids stepping out into the road without looking where they are going, or old dears pulling out without indicating properly, or young mums in 4x4s behaving as if they own the road, we know just how dangerous other people can be, and in fact, we're kinda expecting it. 

So, to those driving chums of mine still afraid to step into the car with me at the wheel, let me just say this, while your many years of experience has undoubtably contributed to your ability as a driver, so have all my years of passengerdom. I can spot a dimwit school kid at 50 paces, while simultaneously identifying those new road markings you've not quite figured out yet, all the time  you're still twiddling with your radio volume. And during your many years on the road you've been building up a litany of bad driving skills (one handed driving anyone? 90 mph on your local dual carriageway? You know who you are) I'm still fresh, driving safely at the correct speed, with my hands firmly at ten to two, all bad habits yet to come. So fear not oh driving chums, do not be scared of my newly acquired skills, freshly polished and finely hewn, just pop me on your insurance will ya, cos goodness knows I can't afford my own.

*slight exageraation but it feels like a long time ago since university. I blame the wrinkles, grey hairs and shattered dreams, but that's a story for another day. 

Baby on bored

So here I am, still learning to drive, and as my skills increasing are apace, unfortunately so is my discontent with other road users. Now, let it not be said that I am a perfect driver. Heck, I've not yet even passed MY driving test & here I am criticising my fellow drivers who have got what I haven't. A qualification. And I recognise that I, being a learner driver, am a total pest to a number of others on the road, primarily by obeying the speed limit & inevitably gathering a convoy behind me like my very own built up area. For which, fellow drivers,  I truly apologise.  However, like most other drivers, I also have growing list of gripes including (but not limited to) haphazard use of indicators, driving up my chuff, and yummy mummies paying more attention to sproglets screaming out the sunroof than the rules of the road. So far, so many gripes, thus so much like many other qualified road users it seems. However there is one particular bugbear that really gets my vehicular goat like no other..... that of the 'Baby On Board' sign.

Grrrrrrr!

I do accept that such a sign might be useful to the Emergency Services when meeting a road traffic accident situation. Yeah. That makes sense, or at least it would if people only used the sign when baby was actually on board, rather than when baby is happily ensconced in a milk burping haze in its crib at home & Daddy is doing his best Lewis Hamilton impression up the M6. However according to a 2012 confused.com survey, 46% of sign owners display it irrespective of whether baby was actually on board or not, meaning potential time wasted at the scene of a road traffic accident while PC Plod searches for an invisible baby. Furthermore, on the subject of safety, more often than not these stickers on the rear windscreen serve only to clutter up ones, ahem, back end, thus obscuring a driver’s vision & potentially causing an accident themselves.

So let's put that ‘safety’ claim to one side, shall we? Because we all know what is actually at play here – it’s Mummy and Daddy pedestalling their baby, demanding all other drivers to take especial care as their 'precious cargo' is on board *yawns*. As a side point, these were the actual words used by the inventor of the Baby On Board sign according that fount of all, ummm knowledge (?) USA Today, when describing the reasons behind his invention. Precious Cargo *gaks*. And it is this which makes me mad, the quite frankly absurd assumption that if it were not for this automotive accessory displayed in ma & pa's car, I'd be driving hell for leather up their sign obscured back end. Ridiculous! And to say nothing (or at least only a little) of the fact that some of the worst driving I've seen of late has been displayed by huge cars outside school gates, packed with baby seats & a blatant disregard for any other road user. So listen up mummies and daddies of the world, believe it or not, I'm gonna do my best to drive safe for EVERYONE, not just because you managed that previously unheard of feat of popping out a sprog. And unfortunately for Halfords, that typographic warning on your road munching, lane weaving, family sized saloon ain't gonna make me drive any better.

Coincidentally the Baby On Board sign celebrated it's 30th birthday last month, so can I now send it hearty congratulations, happy birthday you shouty, yellow rascal. But while I am wishing happy birthday, can I suggest we all do what that 30 year old sign has done all on its own? Very simply, grow up. That and start treating everyone (regardless of their breeding status) with a bit of respect on the roads, mummies, daddies & precious cargo included.

So it is…. Nice punning America