Is there such a thing as "too good" customer service?

Tuesday, February 24th, 2015

Last week, to celebrate Gareth and I's first anniversary (or, in years together, 19th anniversary!), we retraced some of our steps from 2014 after we had the civil partnership ceremony. Our "honeymoon" (remember how I hate that word!) took place at Langley Castle in Northumbria, near Hexham, and we enjoyed it so much that we decided to mark our anniversary by returning to the scene.

It's a proper castle experience, with four poster beds and window seats and 6ft thick stone walls and passageways and turrets and flags and all that heraldic stuff that you want when you visit an English castle. It's not cheap by any stretch of the imagination, but for a once a year treat, it suits us just fine.

But this blog isn't about how wonderful and happy we were in an expensive castle, that would be boring (not to say, repetitive!). No, I thought I'd talk about the hotel we went to after Langley, which for reasons which will become clear, will remain anonymous. Not because it was so bad, but because it was kind of too good - or rather, trying to be too good. Let me explain...

After Langley we traveled to North Yorkshire and stayed in a spa hotel not far from the beautiful seaside town of Whitby. Now, first things first, I can hardly blame myself for booking a hotel which offered services which I wouldn't ordinarily be interested in, but aside from that, the level of customer service kind of creeped me out a bit.

I have plenty of hotel experience, from the dirt cheap Ibis Budgets through to the aforementioned top of the range stately homes. But never have I come across the type of service which greeted us at this particular hotel.

We parked up and wandered into the lobby to try and check in, but were told we were just a little bit too early and could we wait 30 minutes or so. Absolutely fine. We were asked if we would like breakfast, and declined as we prefer to generally pay less, eat more healthily and find somewhere in the locale to invest in. It was at this stage that a suited gentleman appeared out of the ether to encourage us to partake in their breakfast - the best breakfast we would ever taste. We declined once more. So far so reasonably normal.

But then a barrage of in-your-face over-friendliness began which really put me on the back foot and sort of disturbed me a bit. The suited gentleman proceeded to refer to me as Mr Stratford constantly, almost at the end of every sentence (and there were many sentences). He also insisted that he should be given the keys to my car so that he could bring my car from the car park to the hotel entrance so our luggage could be unloaded.

I insisted that that would not be necessary and that we were happy to transport our own luggage, but the matter would not be dropped. He went on to say that he would like to drive us in a golf buggy to our car, so that we could fetch our own luggage back in the buggy. I said no, it would be fine, we would wait until the room was ready with our keys and we would fetch our luggage ourselves.

Not dissuaded from treating us like crown princes from some mega-rich Arabian province, the suited gentleman proceeded to insist we had a "hotel orientation session", which essentially consisted of a personalised tour of the entire spa complex so that we knew where everything was. Now, as I type this I realise this reads quite innocently, simply an example of good customer service on a level which perhaps isn't reached often enough these days. But it was the constant use of "Mr Stratford" and the unceasing insistence that everything I might want to do for myself could be done by a member of staff which perturbed me. When I go to a hotel I expect to be treated with respect, politely, and have any need I require to be met, within reason. But this gentleman was really overdoing it, acting as if we had paid an inordinate amount of money for a personalised service above and beyond the attentiveness of any staff I'd ever known before.

The "hotel orientation session" took Gareth and I on a tour of the restaurant ("In the evenings the tables will not be as bare as this, Mr Stratford, they will have candles and there will be low lighting. All very tasteful!"), then the wine cellar ("plenty to choose from there, Mr Stratford!"), then the conservatory, and then the gardens. Now, fair's fair, the gardens were beautifully landscaped and when Gareth and I escaped the suited gentleman's clutches later on, we did have a walk around the grounds and they were the best thing about the entire hotel. But I didn't need to be shown the gardens, I would've been happy to be told about them and to discover them myself at my leisure.

The orientation session had only just begun. We were then taken into the hotel bar lounge, marched to the very centre of the room and told where the bar was, what was on the food menu and what ales were being served. Everybody else in the room stopped what they were doing/ eating/ drinking/ saying and turned to look at the two interlopers being given a grand tour of the hotel. Who did they think they were? As all eyes stared at me, I realised that some of these customers might be thinking I was famous or rich in some way. Dressed in scuffed boots and leather jacket, I hardly felt the part.

That was the bar done. Next was the spa. "We don't take people all the way down to the spa on an orientation session, Mr Stratford, for, you know..." At this point the suited gentleman lost his words, and I interjected: "Privacy?". "Yes! Yes, Mr Stratford, quite right!", and then he proceeded to stand with us halfway down the steps to the spa and tell us which button to press in the lift, what we should wear between bedroom and spa, and what time the children's "splash times" were so we could avoid the kids. "Unless you're teachers, are you, Mr Stratford?" When I told him I was not a teacher, he replied: "Well, that's just as well, Mr Stratford, because children are the last thing you probably want around you during a half-term, aren't they?"

Our hotel orientation session was over... for the time being. Our room wasn't quite ready, so we were urged to take a bite or pint in the bar lounge as we waited, but after my experience as a bogus millionaire during the tour, I didn't feel I wanted to return to the scene just yet so we insisted on a walk around the grounds as we waited.

As it happens, following our walk we did decide to have a bite in the bar (though not the bite I might have preferred, as one of the barmen was lick-the-mirror handsome!) and as we tucked into our sandwiches and fries I was tapped on the shoulder by the suited gentleman to tell me my room was now ready and that when we'd finished eating he would help bring my car round with the luggage. ARGH!

We circumnavigated the luggage escort experience as the gentleman was blissfully absent when we went to check in proper, but before you could say "The Shopkeeper from Mr Benn", up he popped again to single-handedly carry all our luggage (one suitcase and two plastic carriers) over to the lift, into the lift, up in the lift, out of the lift, along the corridor and to our room.

When we reached the bedroom door, Gareth quite naturally attempted to open it using the electronic key card, but it was snatched from his hand by our guide. He showed us that we were wrong to take the key cards out of the slipcase we'd been given as all we had to do was wave the slipcase in front of the lock and the door would open. He demonstrated this with the pride usually seen in a parent's eyes when they watch their child's first steps. Boy, was he proud of those hands-free electronic door mechanisms!

You guessed it, he didn't leave us there. He proceeded to give us a "room orientation session", heaving our suitcase onto the bed and then giving us a five minute tour of the room and its facilities. "You'll find the TV remote control up here, Mr Stratford, and the tea and coffee-making facilities over here."

And then the mind-numbing: "Do you have any particular tea requirements?". Gareth and I looked at each other blankly for a few seconds, wondering what to say. Gareth said he had no particular requirements, but was then told that any type of tea he wanted could be obtained: flavoured teas, herbal teas, fruit teas. "We stock Yorkshire tea, but any brand can be obtained for you, Mr Stratford".

Note: NOT from the hotel in question

After reassuring him that regular tea was fine, we were then shown where the hairdryer lived, and the ironing board, how the bath taps worked, and where the bathrobes hung. We were shown how the patio doors opened and what was outside on the patio, and also given a bit of history about the building and what the special builder's marks were on the brickwork.

Back inside we were told that if we wanted to bring a bottle of wine of our own into the room - "or indeed any form of alcohol, Mr Stratford" - all we needed to do was ring room service and the "appropriate glassware" would be brought to our room, "free of charge!". I spied the two generous tumblers on the tea tray and considered they'd be appropriate for anything I'd be drinking in my room, wine or water.

And at that, he was off. I was just getting used to having a constant commentary in my ear about where I was and what I could do when he said he'd leave us in peace and swept out of the room backwards, closing the door behind him. I looked once more at a stunned Gareth, crossed over to the door and flicked the lock.

Now, all this sounds very nice, doesn't it? A polite man very politely giving us a polite tour of the hotel and its facilities and then politely leaving. But the intensity of this man's breathless determination to meet his customers' every needs was overwhelming and disconcerting. I felt like a child, incapable of doing anything myself. I mean, I didn't care where the hairdryer was, but if I did need it, I'm sure I was capable of opening a drawer and finding it there.

On the one hand, the level of customer service and care at this place was second to none. They meant well, and they did well. Every single member of staff, to a fault, was super-polite and professional and couldn't do enough for you. But it also kind of felt like we were in some sort of institution, some nightmarish holiday camp where everyone wears fake smiles and pretends nothing bad ever happens. A veneer of paradise which was in no way a sham, but which was forced, plastic, ersatz.

Sadly, we won't be returning. We felt uncomfortable every time we left our room as we would often be accosted by the suited gentleman, hovering in the lobby, and asked if we needed our car bringing round if we were going out for the evening. No. No! It's my car, I'll drive it, thank you very much!

What do you think? Would you revel in such over-attentive customer service? Or do you prefer the polite but hands-off unless asked kind of customer service that I do?

Pictures of you (and you and you)

Thursday, December 18th, 2014

I had a work leaving do last night, even though I left two weeks ago. We all had a great time, first quaffing a few drinks at the Albion pub in Conwy, then scoffing a meal at Alfredo's restaurant in the town. A handful of us returned to the Albion for last orders. A good night was had by all, and I thank everybody for coming along. It meant a lot to me.

Anyway, the booby prize for those who came is for pictures of them to be posted on the interweb (and I expect my blog stats to go through the roof and for the number of hits to be reported diligently at the next Daily Post news conference). For those unable to make it, this will no doubt give them a chuckle...

First up, two people I spent a lot of the last five
years at work with, Eva and Joel (quite what
Eva is doing to poor Joel is a mystery. Maybe
it's a Slovakian massage or something).
Joel looks half-cut, but was actually 100% sober
for a change.

Then we have Neil (my former boss, a phrase he doesn't particularly like) and Mari,
a reporter I've worked with for more years than either of us will ever admit to.
Mari was really up for this photo...

...Neil not so much. So Mari went for the jugular. By the way, they are spectacles
on Neil's head, which he puts there so he can see up to people.

Here we have Owen (who came as a Frenchman),
Dion (who looks like butter wouldn't melt but
 we all know it so would), Samantha (who looks distinctly unsure about
these guys) and Steve, who looks like he's
not sure about anything.

Here's Steve looking a little more confident about who and
where he is, with glam Samantha, plus Judith, whose
curled fist makes her look ready to lash out at any
moment. She's also looking off-camera. There's
always one...

There is an "out-take" from that session, where Samantha and Steve are deep in conversation and Judy looks far less aggressive...

Group shot of Blake (aka Eric Morecambe), Laura (caught in mid-swish) and
Tom, who's probably about to say something vaguely intelligent that nobody's
listening to. Maybe it's about the poo on his plate? In the background we have Jo
(who we'll come back to) and a preoccupied Andy, who's probably texting the
latest work experience girl to arrange a hook-up.

Me (the handsome one on the left) and Tom,
who looks pretty satisfied with himself. And
so he should be - he has plenty to be proud of.
I won't say where his right hand was in that shot
(actually, maybe that's why he's so satisfied...)

Andy and Rhodri. Don't they make a nice couple? Neither of them look like
they want this photograph to happen!

Two goons. I never look good in selfies. Rob looks like someone's tickling him,
which may have been his wife Helen as she'd just been told by a fortune-telling
fish from a Christmas cracker that she was passionate.

Rob with said wife Helen. She looks very demure here, but trust me, you don't
cross her. Rob did once, and now look at him. Also, Rob was very amused by
the sign behind him reading "a touch of cream". I'm saying nothing.

Mari again and Jo, properly this time. Again, don't they make a nice couple?
And there's Rhodri in the background thinking: "Thank God Andy's going."

And finally, me and Owen (the Frenchman
from earlier on). Don't they make a lovely couple?

Absent from these pictures but who did come along for a drink are David, Bryan and Jez (who I learned used to be a bingo caller in Caernarfon. I can so see that).

Thank you again for everybody who came along, thank you to those who were unable to make it but who were there in spirit, and thank you to everyone collectively for raising £117.50 for Parkinson's UK when they had a whip-round for me. That means the most to me.

I won't miss the job I've left, but I will miss the people. Every single one of you.

The honeymoon (oh how I hate that word)

Thursday, February 27th, 2014

The first glimpse that a visitor gets of Langley Castle

It's been a while since my last blog entry, since when I've got married, been on "honeymoon", and returned to work. So while I impatiently await the pictures of the civil ceremony day itself, I thought I'd write something about the amazing few days we spent afterwards. The honeymoon...
Oh, how I hate that word. I'm not sure exactly why, it just sounds so twee and old-fashioned, like something people harped on about in 1970s sitcoms. I looked up the origins of the word, and it seems the etymology is confused, but one opinion says the word originates in the Middle Ages when a newlywed couple would be given a month's worth of mead as a gift by friends and family - a month's supply being sufficient for one full cycle of the moon, in which time it was expected the bride would fall pregnant. And, of course, mead is made with honey, and honey is proven to act as a powerful fertility booster, so there you go. Or rather, there we didn't go!
Anyway, the "honeymoon". After staying our first night betrothed in Chester, we travelled oop north (an old stalking ground of mine from my university days) to stay in York for a couple of nights. I love York, it groans with history and atmosphere and is a rare gem that hasn't been exploited by commercialism too much.

Complimentary chocs

We stayed at a Best Western hotel called the Monkbar, and although it is part of a national chain, you'd never know, because it is family-run, and it shows. Personal service, friendly and down-to-earth, you can just tell it's run by people and not policies. We weren't ten minutes in the room when the telephone rang and it was the receptionist ringing to check everything was OK with the room. Now, I've stayed in scores of hotels across the world in my time, but never in any of them have I had a call to the room to check it was OK.
We also got a little box of four complimentary chocolates, which naturally went down exceedingly well!

These dudes were very kind,
 they stood very still while I
 took my photo

We spent a lot of time taking literally hundreds of photos of York Minster, a vast and awesome spectacle which I had walked past and looked at countless times in the past, but never actually gone inside. The expense had put me off (£10 each), but that entry fee allows the holder to revisit the Minster for free as many times as they like for the next 12 months, which isn't a bad deal, especially if you're local.
I'm not a fan as such of ecclesiastical architecture - the extravagance and immodesty of Catholic church interiors in particular leaves me uneasy - but they are definitely good to photograph, so we had a ball.
Another good haunt in York is the Guy Fawkes Inn, just a hop, skip and jump from the Minster. They do excellent evening meals in a very subdued atmosphere of candlelight and authentic decor. Spooky, but not scary. Hot waiter, too...

The stalls of York Minster... Very M R James!

The awesome chapter house

After York we moved on to Northumberland, to stay in the 14th century castle at Langley, close to Hexham. We'd stayed there a couple of years ago on a press trip freebie and loved it so much that we vowed to return, and we considered a post-nup stay the ideal opportunity.

Looking through from the bathroom to the
 bedroom (see the spooky apparition
 in the chair?)

I've always wanted to stay inside a castle, a proper castle with turrets and 7ft thick walls and suits or armour and flags, and this is it. Last time we stayed in the converted barn lodge overlooking the castle. This time we were in the Greenwich suite inside the castle itself. Not cheap, but truly worth every extravagant penny.
Our room had a window seat overlooking the front of the castle, including a fountain and impressive topiary and a woodland seething with rabbits and birdsong. It was so relaxing, sitting drinking a morning cuppa overlooking such tranquil surroundings.
Langley is just off the A69, which runs roughly parallel to the original route of Hadrian's Wall, so there is a lot of history about this rugged moorland. Various Roman landmarks and tourist attractions pepper the route, so we called in to a couple and really enjoyed our time there. There's the remains of an impressive original Roman settlement at Vindolanda; you can walk around the actual settlement, which has been and continues to be painstakingly unearthed and preserved by archaeologists. There are no buildings left intact, but it's like walking around the foundations of the settlement, complete with doorways and butcher's slabs and the freshwater irrigation channels. A truly inspiring place.

Vindolanda, sozzled in sepia

At the Roman Army Museum seven miles away it's all indoors, but there is a 3D film you can watch recreating Roman Britain, following one handsome soldier on his journey from simple lackey to a full-on centurion (fact fans like me will appreciate the nugget that a centurion did not command 100 men, just 80).
And then it was off back home, but we had an amazing, rewarding and refreshing few days "honeymoon" which we will never forget. You're truly treated like a prince at Langley, and I've always loved York, so the entire trip was well-planned. And who doesn't love a Roman soldier?
Now, where the heck are those wedding photos... ?

The window seat at Langley Castle.
We spent a lot of our time while in the room here!

A most memorable Mancunian memoir

Sunday, February 2nd, 2014

I had such a good weekend in Manchester that I felt I wanted to write about it, and you can choose to read about it or not.
It all began on Friday with a lovely meal at one of my favourite eateries in the city centre, Kro at Piccadilly Gardens. It's a Danish restaurant/ bar but has all sorts of dishes on the menu. Having said that, I often find I prefer the Danish dishes, many of which seem to incorporate either fried or poached eggs, beetroot or black pudding. Sometimes all three. It's very hearty food, the sort of solid, meat and potatoes nosh that makes you feel good on a cold, winter's night (which it was on Friday).

Medister sausages. They have
 quite a kick

This time around I opted for medisterpølse, a Danish or Norwegian speciality consisting of a thick, spicy sausage made of minced pork, and it was delicious. In the past I've also enjoyed biksemad, a hash made with pork, onion and potato flavoured with lashings of Worcestershire sauce, topped with a fried egg and beetroot. I often think that most food would benefit from a dash of Lea and Perrins...
After loosening my belt by one notch, we headed to Manchester Opera House for a show I've been meaning to see for years now - Thriller Live. It's been firmly ensconced in London's West End for most of the last eight years, but it's current UK tour was an opportunity too good to miss.

The calm before the storm of hits

Being a fan of Michael Jackson's music since I was a teenager (any "child of the 80s" cannot fail to count the Thriller or Bad album among their earliest memories of discovering pop music) this show was a fantastic celebration of the late entertainer's most popular work. I wouldn't say it had the most imaginative set list, but then if they didn't include the likes of Thriller, Bad, Billie Jean, Beat It or Smooth Criminal, I'm sure the audience would lynch them. It would have been nice to include a few of Jackson's lesser known but just as enjoyable tracks though, such as Whatever Happens or You Rock My World off his 2001 Invincible album.
Nevertheless, everybody seemed to have a riotous time, and it was a great atmosphere in what is a gorgeous little Edwardian theatre (little being the accurate description of its very cramped leg room).

Manchester Opera House managed to look a little like the cinema in Michael Jackson's Thriller video

After a few drinks in my favourite bar in Manchester - the Molly House on Richmond Street - it was to bed, ready for Day Two.
Up bright and early, and a delicious breakfast at the small but perfectly formed Blue Daisy Cafe in the city's Northern Quarter. It only has three tables inside, and a couple outside, but if there's space, this is one of the best places I know of for freshly prepared home-cooked food. They always have delicious looking soups and salads in their chiller, and I always feel I want to sample them all. This time I opted for scrambled eggs with spinach, tomatoes and mushrooms on thick bread, however. The perfect start for a busy day ahead.
We "did the shops", including one of the finest, most exciting, diverse, crazy, bohemian and imaginative places in the city, Affleck's off Church Street, again in the Northern Quarter.

Affleck's, aka Affleck's Palace

If you like to go round shops which sell oddments and knick-knacks, unusual handmade trinkets, vintage clothing and homewares, fancy dress, jewellery et al, this is the place for you - a vast multi-storey warehouse of individual, independent traders, many of whom make their own goods to sell, while others trade in second-hand and nostalgic goods. Marvel at Star Wars figures, 1950s telephones, retro wall paintings, stacks of old VHS tapes and Amstrad game cassettes, 70s lampshades and Army surplus clothing.
I love Affleck's, and after one visit, you will too.
We then drove over to Salford Quays (annoyingly, the Metrolink was undergoing maintenance on Saturday) and parked at the Lowry Outlet Mall, where you can get four hours free parking if you eat at one of the restaurants there. So we did, scoffing Italian breads and meatballs at Bella Italia before nipping across to the Lowry for our second theatrical date of the weekend, this time with Rob Ward of Manchester's own Working Progress Theatre Company, and his one-man show Away From Home (you can watch the trailer at the foot of this entry).
In the space of 65 minutes Rob manages to portray umpteen different characters in a play which addresses homophobia in football, or more accurately the lack of out gay players in the sport.

Rob Ward

Rob plays a gay footie fan (two things that go together rather awkwardly) who is also a male escort, and who one day meets a new client who just happens to be a high-flying Premiership footballer. A relationship blossoms between the two, but it can never be spoken of because footballers just aren't gay, obviously.
The play addresses the inability of players to feel they can come out while still active in the game, for fear of "career suicide" as well as a stream of offensive, homophobic chanting on the pitch from fans.
The play is explicit, daring, confrontational, challenging and most importantly of all, unafraid to address a topic that has been taboo for far too long. The Studio Theatre at the Lowry was packed to the rafters, so congratulations to Rob for coming up with something genuinely brave and entertaining.

The Reading Room at the John Rylands Library

Then it was back into the city to catch the free Subluminal event at the beautifully gothic John Rylands Library on Deansgate. Its cathedral-like grandeur was the perfect venue for Subluminal, which basically used lighting and sound effects to create a spooky, eerie and unnerving walk-through experience.
The main reading room at the Library is impressive at the best of times, but illuminated in deep neon pinks and oranges, it was like being in some dream-like netherworld. The trip into the Library's cellars was claustrophobic and exhilarating.
And it was all for free. Such a good event.
Just one example of the many and varied things you can do in Manchester on any given weekend. I could even have gone on a giant pink observation wheel if I wanted, but I didn't. I did the London Eye a few years ago, but not even the Mancunian skyline can top that!

The Freij Wheel at Piccadilly Gardens

Force-fed cream cakes

Tuesday, November 19th, 2013

This cake stand is in one way my nemesis, and in another, a simply beautiful thing. Whenever we visit Gareth's mum and dad's, when we have a cup of tea, this cake stand comes out and it is laden with cakes, usually cream cakes.
Normal people would eat just one cake, but so insistent are Gareth's parents that all of the cakes should be eaten ("or they'll just go to waste") that I often end up having to eat two - sometimes, to my utter horror, three - cream cakes. Like the wiliest of pensioners, they will not take no for an answer, and appear to take considerable offence if you decline.
It's OK for them, they seem to be able to eat as much fattening food as they like - they consume considerable quantities of sweets, chocolates, biscuits and cakes, without ever putting on an ounce in weight. That anatomical mystery does not translate to me, however, and so a visit to the "in-laws" always goes hand in hand with gluttony and that awful feeling of having had "one too many".
They look delicious, they taste delicious, but by 'eck they're harsh on the arteries!
But look at them... they are so hard to resist. And impossible to decline.

A picture of my lunchbox

Tuesday, November 12th, 2013

I ummed and aahed for some time before I decided that yes, I would post a picture of my lunchbox on the worldwide web. It's probably not the lunchbox some of you would prefer, but it's undoubtedly the lunchbox most of you are glad to see.
Anyway, the first thing I do when I get home from work is make my lunch for the next day. I have to do it straight away while I'm in "work mode" otherwise I'd get too relaxed to bother with it. I make a good packed lunch - healthy bread with healthy fillings, fruit such as berries or apple or both, sometimes chopped celery or a piece of cheese (and sometimes, as here, a naughty sausage roll), plus a bag of crisps (today it's Skips - "extra tingly on your tongue!").
I used to go to the shop every day to buy sandwiches, those meal deal things, but the amount of salt and preservatives in those pre-packed sarnies is scary. I see people devouring them every day and wonder why they don't make their own sandwiches like me. It's much more rewarding, and the best thing is you can choose your favourite sandwich fillings all the time - AND you know what's in what you're eating!

An apple a day...

Sunday, October 27th, 2013

My mum and dad's friends have apple trees in their garden, which bore fruit to rather too many apples for them to cope with, so they "donated" bags of the things to mum and dad. Their kitchen was brimming with apples, and a lot of today was spent trying to think of ever more imaginative ways of using them. Apple sauce, stewed apples, apple pie, apple crumble, even toffee apples were considered... And still there were bags left over!
They weren't the most attractive of apples, but what they lacked in aesthetic appeal, they made up for in character. They had blemishes and little holes where they'd been attacked by nature's citizens, but they were still edible and juicy - and prolific.
We had a family session of peeling, coring and chopping up as many apples as my mum could cook/ bake/ freeze, and naturally when Gareth and I left mum and dad's to come home, we too were laden with apples and various apple-based foodstuffs. It was nice doing something so simple as a family unit.