At the other end of the line he found a telephone tree, none of whose options offered a solution to his problem. Undaunted, Mr. Richings called Sainsbury’s main customer service, where he was told that the company’s stores did not accept phone calls from the public. “How do these companies expect to communicate with their customers?” His letter concludes. The answer is that a growing number of companies are actively avoiding direct communication with their customers. Any attempt to tackle a problem, no matter how trivial, involves navigating a series of digital options, followed – when none of them prove relevant – by an online “chat” with someone whose default script prevents them from offering any constructive assistance. I recently found myself having such a conversation with Alice in Wonderland when, having broken my old smartphone, I tried to access my account. A text verification code was required, which – without a telephone – I could not obtain. The online “conversation” that followed with a “consultant” proceeded to the circular lines of the old song “There is a hole in my bucket”. What was impressive about this meeting was her complete detachment from reality. What would once be a simple negotiation between a customer and a supplier becomes the sole responsibility of the customer. For many of us, this corporate disclaimer is a waste of time. But for a significant number of people who do not have – or want – a smartphone, living in an area (like me) where mobile coverage is poor or unable to navigate a digital world as opaque as an unknown language, Smartphone dominance in all areas of life, from parking to accessing a bank account or a doctor’s appointment, is a means of severe social exclusion. Former Pensions Minister Baron Altman has argued that “progress should not be dressed as improvement if it’s leaving millions out”. “Keep calm and keep going” was a wartime slogan often used during the lockdown for Covid. Strange, then, is the fact that the generations that embodied this spirit should now be excluded from our brave new world. Leaving the nest Child addiction could be expected to last until the age of 40, a speaker at the recent Cheltenham Science Festival observed. In this disturbing prospect, a vivid correction is found in the Telegraph Lady’s obituary [Judy] Percival, who died at the age of 100. A talented dancer, she married at the age of 20, and almost immediately divorced her husband, Ian, who was sent to serve in wartime in India. In 1944 she decided to find him and finally met him at a train station in Calcutta (Calcutta), where she was disappointed that she looked “dirty and hot” for their reunion. When her husband later became Attorney General in Thatcher’s first government, she used to collect primroses for him to give to the Prime Minister. An adventurous spirit, a wild sense of purpose and an appreciation of life’s approachable trivia are not, at present, a modern combination. However, like the slogans in time of war in difficult times, we can understand their value.
