If only I’d known…my list is endless and at the top is ‘If
only I’d known I wouldn’t get a state pension until I’m 66’. I’ll set that rant
aside for another day. Things have been happening lately to turn me into a
female Victor Meldrew.
I’ve been feeling cross nearly every day this year so far.
It started when I attempted to upgrade my mobile phone. If only I’d known what
a frustrating journey I was about to start.
I knew which phone I wanted and which tariff suited my
needs. I’d had a contract with the same network for the best part of ten years
and renewing was always straight forward. Until now. In the shop there were
post-it notes on the computers reminding the staff that photo I.D. must be
obtained from every customer upgrading their phone. That’s me out. I explained
that I don’t have any form of photo I.D. They couldn’t help me apart from
suggesting that I try upgrading online or by phone. The new rule had come about
because of an attempted, unsuccessful in-house fraud regarding customers due to
upgrade. So, through no fault of my own, I have to go to the expense of
obtaining a form of photo I.D. if I want to get a new phone in the shop. With
regard to doing it online or by phone, I really thought they could have been
more helpful or pro-active in doing it that way in the shop. I left to think
about it and fizzed with annoyance all the way to the car park.
I talked myself into deciding a photo I.D. might be useful
in general and a couple of days later, set about applying for a new driving
license. Anyway, my family, mainly my husband had scorned my paper one for long
enough, even suggesting that it might not be legal. I had to wait for the form
to arrive through the post.
The more I thought about the mobile phone company, the more
disappointed I became about how I’d been treated. I returned to the Hounds Hill
one day, popped into the shop of a different network and minutes later emerged
with a Sony something, all-you-can-eat text messages, more minutes than I’ll
ever use and twice as much data allowance on a cheaper contract than I
expected. Then there was a verbal battle between me and my previous provider. I
wanted to cancel my contract and keep my number. I spoke to different people as
I was repeatedly put on hold. They all asked the same questions, trying to
persuade me to stay, telling me I can cancel my new contract with my new
network. I can hear myself now, parrot fashion – “Cancel my contract and send
me a PAC code, please. Cancel my contract and send me a PAC code, please.”
Sometimes I think I’m not cut out for life in the modern
world. I shouldn’t have to waste time insisting and persisting for something so
trivial as swapping phone networks. Eventually, that battle was won, but I
still had a war going on.
My driving license form arrived. I completed it neatly and
asked one of my work professionals to verify my identity and sign my photo.
Well, I think the photo was of me. I looked like an old dear with wind-swept
hair and no lipstick on, but it would do. I enclosed my old driving license,
thinking that was all I needed to send as I was only renewing something I’d had
for forty-odd years. Wrong.
Two weeks later it was returned to me, marked in red ink –
that tells me I’ve failed, so I’m unhappy before I’ve read it – pointing out
the list of documents I must send before it can be processed. A passport. I
don’t have a valid one, otherwise I would already have photo I.D. A birth
certificate must be supported by other documents to support any change of name.
Fine, except I don’t have all the links in that chain. Evidence of my National
Insurance number, a P60. Perfect.
I gathered all that was suitable and posted it back. Being
cross makes me more efficient, I think. And I was feeling very cross with the
DVLA when I wrote a strong cover note suggesting that matching my Driver Number
with my address which hasn’t changed for many years should be sufficient.
I am currently awaiting the arrival of my new license and
the safe return of all my documents.
If only I’d known
Of all these complications,For something simple.