Let me tell you that right now, drycleaners are the very bane of my existence. Well that was true until a few short minutes ago. Let me explain. It begun on Saturday afternoon when I thought it would be a good idea to take just about all my suits for cleaning at the drycleaners at the local shopping center. They do a generally good job, save for the seemingly excessive quantities of chemicals they pour into the clothes … they could almost make your eyes tear! This was such a big step up from the place I used to dryclean in the CBD where clothes would come out reeking of sweat after cleaning. My pal joked about this saying that maybe they also ran a clothes hire business. What we won’t do to save a shilling!
But I digress. They told me that I could go for the clothes the next day. So on the Sunday of the infamous countrywide blackout (dark Sunday?) I go for them during said black out just to find the shop closed. I chalk that off to their not thinking that guys would come for their clad in the dark. No biggie.
Enter Monday evening when I make a stop over on my way home to pick the suits. “Madam pole sana,” I’m told “Lakini hazijakua tayari.” (“Sorry lady but they’re not ready”). I’m put off and disappointed since I only have the reject suits for the next day that I was just about to give out to charity. I would have preferred not to wear those but what to do? In my head, I quickly think that the blackout must have stalled the cleaning process and sigh heavily. It does not however help me put my mind at ease that the guy attending me keeps insisting that I must have taken the clothes for cleaning late on Sunday and that’s why they are not ready. *Sigh*
It’s Tuesday and I’ve had a disappointing and difficult day. All I want to do is curl up in bed with my novel while listening to relaxing music. For lack of anything to wear the next day, I pass by the cleaners thinking it just a quick stop. So the attendant picks my receipt and goes to the back to look for the clothes. Minutes tick on and on. And on, and on, and on. Trying very hard not to get worked up, I ask another attendant to find out why it’s taking so long. After a minute, Attendant No. 2 comes out and informs me that my clothes were mistakenly taken to another branch. I want to cry. Turns out that the other branch gets its clothes cleaned from this outlet and their overzealous or just daft employee picked my clothes with the rest. I really have no fight left in me. Almost as bad as the news of the missing clothes, is the fact that Attendant No. 1 kept me waiting unnecessarily long for bad news and didn’t even have the decency to face me in person but sent a minion!
Wednesday just starts off awfully coz I feel I look bad in a strange suit. I try to greatly minimize movement away from my desk so as not to be seen (this of course turns out to be the day when my bosses want to send me on excursions in the most unlikely of places (Murphy’s Law)). During my rounds, I confide my drycleaner troubles to a pal who clearly does NOT know how to help. He tells me that I’m unlikely to get my clothes back and reminisces about the time when his pants were lost by the cleaners. He says that they told him just what they were telling me until they finally admitted the loss. Not one to take his property lightly, he made a big deal out of the whole thing and finally managed to get compensation. Joy.
Evening comes and I slink off to the cleaners all along hoping that this will be the last time I’ll ever have to go there again. “Ah madam … ni wewe” I’m told by yesterdays Attendant No. 1. “Sasa … hizo nguo hazijakuja bado.” (So, it’s you? Your clothes aren’t back yet”). This time I don’t hold back. I throw the book together with a dictionary and the encyclopedia Britannica at them for good measure. I explain, in no calm tones, that I have nothing to wear the following day and that it is not reasonable to keep someone waiting for such a long time. They assure me that the clothes will be there within the hour since the offending branch has sent someone to deliver them. We agree that I’m to come back in an hour’s time when I’m assured the clothes will have arrived. Thoughts of reporting the matter to the cops as theft flash through my mind but I wait.
So yes that’s where I’m from and I did manage to get the clad. They seem well done to me and I’m primarily relived that my pal’s prediction did not come to pass. As I left, the attendants gave me a little lecture about how to err is human and I shouldn’t get annoyed when all can be so easily rectified. Oi! It would be a wonder if they ever got a whiff of my money again!
But I digress. They told me that I could go for the clothes the next day. So on the Sunday of the infamous countrywide blackout (dark Sunday?) I go for them during said black out just to find the shop closed. I chalk that off to their not thinking that guys would come for their clad in the dark. No biggie.
Enter Monday evening when I make a stop over on my way home to pick the suits. “Madam pole sana,” I’m told “Lakini hazijakua tayari.” (“Sorry lady but they’re not ready”). I’m put off and disappointed since I only have the reject suits for the next day that I was just about to give out to charity. I would have preferred not to wear those but what to do? In my head, I quickly think that the blackout must have stalled the cleaning process and sigh heavily. It does not however help me put my mind at ease that the guy attending me keeps insisting that I must have taken the clothes for cleaning late on Sunday and that’s why they are not ready. *Sigh*
It’s Tuesday and I’ve had a disappointing and difficult day. All I want to do is curl up in bed with my novel while listening to relaxing music. For lack of anything to wear the next day, I pass by the cleaners thinking it just a quick stop. So the attendant picks my receipt and goes to the back to look for the clothes. Minutes tick on and on. And on, and on, and on. Trying very hard not to get worked up, I ask another attendant to find out why it’s taking so long. After a minute, Attendant No. 2 comes out and informs me that my clothes were mistakenly taken to another branch. I want to cry. Turns out that the other branch gets its clothes cleaned from this outlet and their overzealous or just daft employee picked my clothes with the rest. I really have no fight left in me. Almost as bad as the news of the missing clothes, is the fact that Attendant No. 1 kept me waiting unnecessarily long for bad news and didn’t even have the decency to face me in person but sent a minion!
Wednesday just starts off awfully coz I feel I look bad in a strange suit. I try to greatly minimize movement away from my desk so as not to be seen (this of course turns out to be the day when my bosses want to send me on excursions in the most unlikely of places (Murphy’s Law)). During my rounds, I confide my drycleaner troubles to a pal who clearly does NOT know how to help. He tells me that I’m unlikely to get my clothes back and reminisces about the time when his pants were lost by the cleaners. He says that they told him just what they were telling me until they finally admitted the loss. Not one to take his property lightly, he made a big deal out of the whole thing and finally managed to get compensation. Joy.
Evening comes and I slink off to the cleaners all along hoping that this will be the last time I’ll ever have to go there again. “Ah madam … ni wewe” I’m told by yesterdays Attendant No. 1. “Sasa … hizo nguo hazijakuja bado.” (So, it’s you? Your clothes aren’t back yet”). This time I don’t hold back. I throw the book together with a dictionary and the encyclopedia Britannica at them for good measure. I explain, in no calm tones, that I have nothing to wear the following day and that it is not reasonable to keep someone waiting for such a long time. They assure me that the clothes will be there within the hour since the offending branch has sent someone to deliver them. We agree that I’m to come back in an hour’s time when I’m assured the clothes will have arrived. Thoughts of reporting the matter to the cops as theft flash through my mind but I wait.
So yes that’s where I’m from and I did manage to get the clad. They seem well done to me and I’m primarily relived that my pal’s prediction did not come to pass. As I left, the attendants gave me a little lecture about how to err is human and I shouldn’t get annoyed when all can be so easily rectified. Oi! It would be a wonder if they ever got a whiff of my money again!
2 comments:
I thought I commented here, seems not....Some Kenyan customer service really really sucks to be honest.
You can sure say that again!
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