I meticulously transcribe her name on to my List of Enemies.

The. Phone. Answering. Lady. At. Serviceteam.

There. That will teach you, Phone-answering Lady at Serviceteam. Come the revolution, you will be made to pay well, alongside the marketing people at the Covent Garden Soup Company, and Person-in-Charge-of-Bulk-Email-Database at Egg.

(Of course it’s a mental list really. I wouldn’t be so stupid as to keep it in writing. Just in case.)

Clearly I would also need to do something about the Rumsfelds, Sharons and Worrell Thompsons of this world, but I will cross that particular bridge when I have the priorities sorted.

My mind rewinds through our conversation. Her utter indifference to the recycling crisis currently engulfing the village, and the total faith that Serviceteam had got the date right and EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN THE STREET had got it wrong.

The lady at West Norfolk Council was also useless. But she sounded genuinely upset that a mistake had been made and that we, the public, had been inconvenienced. And that makes a difference, you see.

Customer service people everywhere take note. Listen, and ye shall all have opportunities in my new world order.

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