The art of getting perishable goods refunded.

Greetings Reader(s)

On the off-chance that you were wondering about this, I called my blog The Melted Laptop because about a month ago my good friend and occasional mentor, Paul S., left my old laptop on a hot tray in the run up to dinner. I went outside to search for cellphone signal and returned to find a scene of mild carnage and a foul smell of charred plastic and last rites computer components. Because I was raised in Bronze Age Zimbabwe, I thought of backing up as something one did in the presence of hungry lionesses rather than anything to do with mere data. "Single event lesson," as they say in evolutionary psychology. So I resolved to commit some thoughts to Google's computer clouds or whatever they're are called. Safer in mainframe banks under Nevada salt flats than on my friend's hot tray is my current motto. Not an elegant one, I concede. In addition, my other good friend, and more frequent mentor, Tudor, informed me that if I worked from home and refused to network properly, then I must brand myself by other means. Blogging was one of the suggested alternatives. Prepare to be underwhelmed because, as we all know, satisfaction is relative to expectation.

I lived with my parents for much longer than ovarian-bearing bipeds considered proper. In fact, in the parlance of those who dish out social opprobrium based on the oracle of Cosmopolitan, "I still lived with my mom at 34." Until the day that I conceded that things had to change, I would quibble as to why the focus was placed on my mother when my dad was also in the house and contributing to just as many of my bills as she was. "Teh! These modern gals," as Edmund Blackadder would say. Besides, it was perfectly feasible to bring a lady friend home when my parents went away on weekends during times when I was employed. At such times, both a double bed and disposable income were available to that end. In addition, a selected bouquet of DSTV channels was available for snuggle time. Bridget, wherever you are, I'm sure readers would appreciate a little comment on how much you enjoyed your 36 hours at our family homestead, although I would like my one-laugh-per-pedestrian T-shirt back if you can organise that sometime. Readers, FYI, the T-shirt was blue and said "Psychiatric Ward - Outpatient." It featured a very realistic barcode and an equally convincing "Patient Number." Oh, the hilarity! With all due respect Bridget, I doubt you look very convincing in that T-shirt since you were a leggy blonde who talked about Paris Hilton - not exactly DSM-IV loopy, although any strange topic of conversation would've gone better with my bowl of Kellogg's All-Bran Flakes.

Away with such desultory weakness. The topic at hand is the art of getting perishable goods refunded. I've noticed that some disgruntled consumers in South Africa walk into shops and read the employees the Group Areas Act, so to speak. That is to say that this category of people generally consists of either verkrampte Afrikaners with resentful English accents or wealthy folk with English accents that no-one in the UK has recognised since The Great Exhibition in 1851. I reluctantly invoke the Group Areas Act because, at this stage in the TBWA\Hunt\Lascaris-Rainbow Nation ©, most of the disgruntled consumers tend to be white and most of the refund firewalls tend not to be. I am writing from the fanciest Cape in all the world, so I admit to a large margin for error. 

Needless to say, unless the store or chain mandates unconditional refunds, what I have described is a dimwitted approach. The employee can usually draw on a Yellow Pages's worth of legitimate grievances against the consumer's forebears and, "You wont get no customer satisfaction." 

What I saw in a Woolworths in Sea Point a few weeks back, on the other hand, was very clever indeed. A well dressed elderly lady approached an assistant, looked at her name tag, used the name more than once in the introductory exchange and then asked to see the manager. When told that the manager was in a meeting, the elderly lady smiled and said she was quite happy to wait for him. The manager's meeting was over in far less time than he was rumoured to be anticipating and he emerged through the swing doors by the fish counter, looking slightly put upon. The elderly lady extended a hand in greeting when he introduced herself and then, to my surprise, as I helped myself to another of Rafaginor's promotional chicken strips in a Mensa IQ-memory sauce, the lady began to give the manager a potted life history: how long she had lived in the area, what Sea Point was like in the 50s, how she missed her grandchildren in Canada and some strategic references to her iffy hip and other health concerns. This unsolicited information was cleverly fused with declarations of her loyalty to Woolworths, including how long she had been using this branch since it opened and how - since her husband passed on - Mr. So and So used to drive her to Cavendish because she felt that only Woolies fruit and vegies were up to snuff. 

The manager was wearing a glazed expression at this stage but how could he be angry with this kindly senior and her history of loyalty to Woolworths. She was wearing him down with boring details and that secret weapon of old age - slow, rambling stories-cum-parables with minimal tonal flair. He had things to do, she wasn't inadvertently reading him the Group Areas Act and he sort of believed her. So that is the first secret to getting perishable goods refunded - attrition. Wear the firewalls down by being an object of sympathy, a loyal customer and the opposite of a raconteur about your life so far. Secondly, produce the merchandise. This, you can't avoid. The elder lady in this field report took a box of allegedly sub-standard, "Easy to peel," Clementines from her bag. I didn't think of it at the time, but perhaps this is a wise stratagem. Keep the bone of contention concealed until the contention. Then she hit him with the killer blow, implying that these Clementines had bought shame on Woolworths, its growers, its packers, its drivers and, by extension, him. She brought down this shame like parents and teachers since the dawn of time by expressing disappointment in the failure to reach the high standards she had set. This is how she did it. In the same slow, gentle voice, she said, "This is not what I have come to expect from Woolworths. This mould is not something to be proud of. For years, you have given me the best fruit, and now this. Mr. So-and-So, surely you agree that Woolworths owes me a refund or a new box. I mean, do you want me to have to walk down the road to Shoprite for my fruit now?" That was the killer blow. No Woolies manager was going to have his fruit compared to a store where oncologists faint at the polony counter. And so the elderly lady got what she wanted, and probably deserved, for it is possible that the fruit should have been finished a day or two earlier. The art of getting the refund was concealing outrage, shaming the corporation, not the individual, and giving the impression of having all the time in the world.