Holding on takes it toll
Easter has been and gone but I’m still eating the chocolate eggs. I’m putting it down to the stress of working as an agent, and, in particular, to the bleak experience of being put on hold.
I’m sure that operators’ inadequate responses to calls are contributing to the soaring levels of stress-related alcohol abuse in the country, as agents, after spending hours of being relegated to the limbo called “on hold”, grab a bottle of wine on the way home, in an attempt to recover from the strains of Greensleeves etc, or animated messages telling us how important our calls are to the company.
I’m starting to base my choice of operator on the quality of the music I’ll end up listening to as I wait for a response. I used to love Della Rees’s What a Difference a Day Makes, but now that I know the lyrics and can write the melodies and harmonies, it has lost its appeal.
I know I’m not alone in finding the on-hold issue frustrating. It’s all very well telling us we can book on an operator’s website, but if a booking is on request or one wants to deviate from the standard, the telephone is the only recourse.
And all agents are suffering; strangely, clients making direct bookings do not seem to experience the same difficulties. We’re trying to give an operator a £7,000 booking and, so far, it has cost us £12 in phone charges, and then the air fare has gone up.
We can’t switch to another operator so we are in a catch-22 situation. As I write this piece we still haven’t got through.
I’ve been down this route before when operators are riding high on direct bookings but as soon as there is a downturn, agents are courted and promised the earth. I don’t want the earth: I want an answer at the end of the line.
Goodness knows what I’ll do when my stash of Easter eggs runs out.
PVC and pets
Two articles recently caught my eye that highlight how far the market has moved on and how diverse it has become.
In the olden days, we were shocked to read of the drunken antics of our 18-30-year-olds. Throughout the summer you could pick up any paper and spot pictures of young people riding motorbikes abroad in their flip-flops, reliant on their trendy hairstyles to protect their heads in the event of a crash.
Bikini-clad girls lying face down close to pools of vomit outside nightclubs were common fare and TV documentaries focused with glee on the promiscuity of the youthful British reveller.
The tabloids still focus on outrageous and anti-social behaviour abroad, but the difference is that these irresponsible Brits are now 30-odd years older. According to a survey, Saga louts have increased by 20%, and more and more of them are causing problems abroad.
The more mature holidaymaker, it seems, is on a mission to spend their children’s inheritance and go out on a high – literally. I have heard of a heady new cocktail taken among the older generation; forget your run-of-the-mill drinks, these days it’s all about PVC. A mix of Philisan, Viagra and Cognac, it knocks a Screaming Orgasm into a cocked hat.
Yes, the elderly are shedding their inhibitions – and their clothes. One client complained that older ladies staying in the same resort as her in Lanzarote were the first to dress up for theme nights, and then undress for a bet.
Where middle-class couples used to request cooking courses in Italy, I’m now being asked for trips to cook in danger zones. Apparently, dicing carrots accompanied by gunfire adds a certain spice to cooking. If you’ve spent 40 years making shepherd’s pie in the home counties, a bit of action isn’t much to ask.
One of my retired clients, who spends a lot of his time travelling, always flies first class. “If I don’t travel first class,” he says, “my kids will when I’m dead and gone.”
The second article that caught my eye concerned the introduction by value hotel chain Travelodge of the “dogillow”, a type of pillow bed for dogs available as part of a £10 per pooch per night charge.
According to the chain, 28% of British pet owners take their animals on holiday and 44% would take their dogs more often if hotels offered a pet bed service.
It’s a stroke of genius really. Just when you thought the market had been exploited as far as possible. Travelodge, you’re the cat’s pyjamas.