The customer isn't always right

“Ma’am, I understand that Mr Pickles is at the vet because he swallowed an unfortunately positioned rat pellet in your neighbour’s garden, but this doesn’t change the fact that I cannot process a refund for your air fryer if you don’t have a receipt.”

“I don’t think you quite understand what I’m saying: how am I supposed to use the air fryer when Mr Pickles’ life hangs in the balance?”

“Ma’am, I sympathise—”

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me, just give me the damn refund!”

“Without a receipt, store policy doesn’t allow—”

“But I bought it from here! Where else would I have gotten it from?”

I glance at the bulging queue of customers approaching me at the customer service desk, Boxing Day Sale signs framing their profiles, red stickers on the majority of the items. Shelves of electrical goods stretch back as far as I can see, littered with swarms of woolly hat-topped bargain hunters digging for hidden treasure, opening sellotaped boxes to examine the goods before inevitably putting the half-opened item back in the wrong place, behind the wrong price label, entitling future customers to insist that a top-of-the-line coffee maker should only cost them ten of their hard-earned British pounds.

“Ma’am, this brand is not exclusive to our store. Lots of places sell this item.”

“But I can’t use it! Mr Pickles—”

“Is at the vet, I know.”

The lady huffs, her puffer coat rustling angrily.

“Where is your manager?” she says.

As much as I yearn to use that famed comeback – ‘Ma’am, I am the manager’ – I sadly am a mere Christmas temp. Even if the lady had a receipt, returns are a bitch to process, and apart from putting basic sales through, I still don’t really know how the till works. Besides, my manager will just process the refund anyway to stop the lady causing a scene, making me look like even more of a callous idiot.

But this lady doesn’t need to know that.

“My manager is not currently available, so you’ll have to deal with me. But they will tell you exactly the same thing. No receipt, no refund.”

The customers behind her tut to each other, but no one intervenes. I hope they’re enjoying the show.

The lady digs her phone out of her crocheted handbag and punches in a number on speed dial.

“Just speak to the vet about Mr Pickles, then you’ll understand why I can’t possibly eat at a time like this.”

It takes all my self-control not to burst out into laughter. One customer in the queue fails in this regard, but the lady in front of me apparently doesn’t hear it. She forces the phone into my hand.

“Ma’am, this doesn’t change—”

“Hello, Sunnyside Veterinary Surgery?” says a faint voice from inside the phone.

I don’t get paid enough for this. My manager, Alex, will be back from lunch any minute, and if they catch me spending fifteen minutes arguing with one customer, blatantly ignoring the company’s ‘values’, I’ll be in big trouble. There’s nothing Alex loves more than adhering to company values, no matter how many Christmas temps get screwed over in the process.

There is only one thing that will get rid of this customer. It would be a low blow, even for me, but this is a matter of principle. This lady needs to learn to keep her receipts. If I give in to her demands now, I’ll just be reinforcing her behaviour, and she’ll keep doing it to other unsuspecting Christmas temps. Who knows how many other cats she has at home that could be on the brink of death at any given minute?

As I bring the lady’s phone to my ear, I turn my head as if to scratch my shoulder and discreetly tap the hang up button without the lady being able to see.

“Hello, yes I’m calling to enquire about a patient of yours, Mr Pickles . . . yes, a cat . . . yes, I’ll hold,” I say into the silent phone. “They’re just pulling up his records,” I tell the lady. She nods.

“Hi, yes no problem,” I continue into the phone. “How is Mr Pickles doing, please? Would you say his condition prevents his owner from being able to eat at the present time?” I pause for what I hope is a believable amount of time. “He’s . . . Oh wow . . . That’s so upsetting to hear.”

 “What? What are they saying?” says the lady.

I hold up my hand to her as though straining to hear the veterinary clinic over her interruption.

“I . . . I’m sure you did everything you could.”

The lady’s face pales, her eyes wide.

“Yes, I’ll tell her . . . Yes, thank you for letting me know.”

“Wait, let me speak to them!”

I remove the phone from my ear and place it into the lady’s hand. “They hung up.”

“What did they say about Mr Pickles?!”

I take a deep breath. Time to put those high school theatre classes to use.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I say, wobbling my voice slightly, allowing my shoulders to slump and my brow to become heavy. “Mr Pickles didn’t make it.”

“He . . . But . . . ”

I put my hand on her shoulder sympathetically and say the only thing I can think of to convince this lady of Mr Pickles’ untimely demise. “Is there anyone I can call for you?”

As the reality of her situation sinks in, the lady’s face practically explodes with emotion.

“MR PICKLES!” she screeches, racing out of the store and accidentally sending a Christmas tree-shaped arrangement of Veganuary recipe books clattering to the floor on her way out. I’ll have to rebuild it later, but that's a small price to pay.

The commotion brings Alex out of the break room to investigate, but by the time they arrive, the lady is long gone.

In front of me, the air fryer sits innocently on the counter. I take a breath and bring it behind the till to deal with later.

I slap on my customer service smile.

“Next, please!”