It was hard to choose a prompt for this week's writing workshop from Josie at Sleep is for the Weak. (The voices in my head often comment on the things that people wrongly assume about me...) But I have gone for number one: tell about a time when you refused to compromise.
I refuse to compromise over poor service, particular when shopping, banking, or dealing with utilities.
I have just spent six weeks switching bank accounts for the sake of a £22 charge. It was an awful lot of bother to go to, switching all the payments in, direct debits and standing orders, but I absolutely knew that I was in the right. And I was absolutely determined not to let 'them' win. Why should they? It just made me so angry. I have closed the two bank accounts of my children which were held there too, opening simple building society savings accounts for them instead. So I feel quietly smug about it now. That will teach them to try and take £22 from me. And I have taken great delight in writing a letter to the bank in question explaining all my reasoning. Again, a ridiculous amount of bother to go to, but it made me feel much better.
I am quite a letter writer. It only takes a few minutes and always seems much more satisfying, as well as often being more productive, than a request or complaint by email or in person.
As well as the bank thing, I am waiting to hear from my local supermarket. I was overcharged for the third time in a row: you know, when something is on special offer so you pick it up for that reason and then when you get to the counter it doesn't register on the till? In the olden days, BC, I would have noticed it immediately and been able to rectify any descrepancy on the spot, but these days I am always busy at the counter trying to persuade Gertie that she doesn't need the packet of crisps/biscuits/sweets that she has managed to pick up from somewhere, whilst simultaneously trying to soothe Gilby as for some reason he always seems to need a feed the moment I start trying to select groceries. So I am somewhat distracted and just hand over my card to pay with barely an acknowledgement of the total, only realising the error when I get home.
And I know it sounds a little petty, but it is an awful lot quicker to bash out a short letter than to load up the car again with children to return to the store.
And it makes a trip to the post-box quite entertaining; there is always an interesting reply waiting for me.