I'm not dead

I've just been quiet.

Since my last ramblings, we've had Christmas, New Year, Easter, assorted birthdays, anniversaries and so forth. Something significant must have happened in my life, surely?

Er, no, not that I can bring to mind.

I've lost a pound or ten during recent weeks, with consequent fall in blood pressure, if anyone's interested. And, as of 10:28 this morning, BST, I've managed a whole seven days without smoking.

That's it.

Whaddya want, excitement?

Snakes and ladders

Saturday afternoon found me picking my way between puddles with very little on my agenda, too many hours in which to do it and limited resources. Then, I struck lucky. I don't know where Heaven is, but its waiting room may be in Croydon.

Four-seat booths with Formica-topped tables, bearing traditilonal condiments and tip-to-pour spouted sugar jars. Uniformly T-shirted waitresses who would regard Kate Moss as a snack. Good coffee, sold cheaply and served in the largest of mugs. Images of Elvis everywhere, leavened by the occasional Hepburn and Monroe. The world's least lifelike but certainly lifesize mannequin, resembling nobody, but clearly intended to be the aforementioned late rocker. So far, so what. All pleasingly kitsch, but not necessarily worth a visit other than to escape the showers.

They play taped music. Real, proper, old-fashioned music. I stayed until I was ejected as the last lingering customer, returning on Sunday. It's surprising how long a coffee can last, when one puts one's mind to it. The most recent waxing dated from 1970, with most having been around for at least four decades. From rockabilly to doo-wop, from surf to pure pop.

In case I've not made myself clear, I liked Sara's Diner. I shall return.

The meaning of "service"

Lately, I have been embroiled in a frustrating dialogue with a company called ... well, maybe I'll identify it at some future point. Suffice it to say, for now, that this organisation claims to have served more than one million consumers to their complete satisfaction. Its raison d'être is the repair of white goods.

Only since it failed to satisfy me have I discovered the wealth of web sites upon which there is ample evidence that I am not the first to be rendered less than fully gruntled by its inability to fulfill its promises.

This lack of service, from a service organisation, has been exacerbated by its apparent reluctance to communicate either internally or with the customer. Having spent a couple of decades working in communications, I am not impressed. Those readers who know me will be unsurprised at my willingness to escalate; I now await further contact from somebody rejoicing in the title of "Director of Warranty Services." As yesterday morning's promise to, "respond by close of play today," turned out to mean an 18:16 email, I'm hardly holding my breath.

Watch this space.

It can't be December yet and I'm only 21

The season to be jolly is now bearing down upon us ever more obviously. December 2009, already? I demand a recount. There remain but 30 days during which I may protest truthfully that I shall not reach 50 until next year. Ye gods.