mandag, august 14, 2006

A tale of a nano

Some time ago, I ordered an iPod. I just couldn’t resist the lovely, shiny and above all tiny thing, it just called my name from the webpage.

So I filled in my name, address, date of birth and favourite breed of dog, and waited oh-so-patiently for my little technical miracle. And waited. And waited. And waited for bloody forever.

After quite enough time, I checked on the pages where my package had gone to. Delivered, it said. With a date and time a week earlier.


I had certainly not seen the thing, and neither had the department in my office who handles deliveries and mail and stuff. So I checked the carrier’s web pages, where it said who had signed for the packet. Not a name I recognised. Nor did anyone else.

The only person in my company with this name works, it turned out, in another department across the city. The carrier, however, claimed they had delivered to the correct address. In which case, they must have delivered to a person not working here.

The other department and the guy working there claimed that they had not seen, or signed for, my package. Whatev.

Now, what really amazes me is that the carrier is allowed to give the package to a person other than the intended recipient. It had my name on it, the correct department, the floor, even my bloody phone number (office AND mobile). So, if they were at the correct address, it’s quite amazing that they were not able to find me.

Then I complained to the seller. Who spent another week figuring things out, and then told me that the carrier had provided “proof” that the package had been delivered to the correct address and signed by the person who does not work at the mentioned address. Which I repeated to the bloody company who had received my money and not managed to give me what I’d paid for – or, apparently listen to what I told them in the first place. I wrote a very angry mail after waiting for response from the “logistics department” for yet another week.

This mail, I wrote before lunch. When I came back from lunch, a packet sat on my desk, marked with “Incorrectly delivered”. Lo and behold, my iPod.

So then I had to write another mail to the customer aservices department, explaining that I had now received my package and that it had obviously been delivered to the wrong address, something the carrier had denied. I asked them to complain about the carrier who did not do the job. They promised to do just that.

But you and I both know that nothing will come of all this hassle.

So who’s the biggest idiot? The guy at the other department, who claimed not to have seen my package (I’m pretty sure he received it)? The carrier, who delivered at the wrong department, and then denied it? The seller, who took my money and made a half-assed attempt to solve the problem? Or me?


Just a thought that I kidnapped from Dawn:

Cocaine really MUST be bad.
Everyone in the 70s smoked weed and the music was awesome.
Everyone snorted coke in the 80s and the music was fucking traaaaa-gic.
You do the math.

So very true.

tirsdag, august 01, 2006

Neither Out Far Nor in Deep

What is it about sailing – really?

A popular saying is that a sailboat is a hole in the water to you throw your money into. Or that sailing is getting from point A to point B and then back to point A, while getting cold and wet.

And true, you often get cold and wet. Usually, you go back to where you started. It is not about sitting in the sun and enjoying the smell of the sea. Sailing is work. You do something all the time. Adjusting the sails just that teeny bit, hopping from side to side, trying to pee while being in a 30 degree angle…

And yet, there is nothing more peaceful or relaxing than sailng. The way you try to master the wind and ride the waves, the smell of salt water, the gulls screaming… There is nothing better.

I truly am crazy about sailing. I understod the vastness of my own craziness last spring. It was the middle of March. I was standing at the outdoor platform, waiting for the train. It was 07:10 a.m. The fog was hanging around my knees, there was just that little drizzle of rain, and about 7 degrees celcius (about 44 F). My hair was getting gradually wetter, moisture seeped into my shoes, and my mascara transferred to my cheeks in that pretty eyelash-pattern.

And all I could think was “I wish I was in my boat.”

I mean. Hello?


The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land
They look at the sea all day.

As long as it takes to pass
A ship keeps raising its hull;
The wetter ground like glass
Reflects a standing gull

The land may vary more;
But wherever the truth may be--
The water comes ashore,
And the people look at the sea

They cannot look out far.
They cannot look in deep.
But when was that ever a bar
To any watch they keep?

Robert Frost