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?

Here's to the future

Wednesday, December 31st, 2014

Dear Past, Thank you for all the lessons. Dear Future, I'm ready...

And so another year passes into history. It's a strange time of year, New Year's Eve. On the one hand you have people wanting to go out and celebrate the passing of one year and the birth of another, singing songs, holding hands in complicated ways and knocking back the pints like there's no January 1st.
But on the other hand you have the melancholy that a New Year can bring. Few people can deny that January can be a thoroughly depressing and disheartening month. That post-celebratory period when nothing seems very enjoyable: the weather's usually appalling, there are debts to pay after the excesses of Christmas, and everybody's on a misguided drive to "better themselves", to diet or exercise or quit something in order to make them feel they are a better person, or at least making progress toward becoming one.
The truth is, we are who we are and it's difficult to change that, especially with a half-hearted diet or exercise fad. People seem determined in January to turn over a new leaf, make a change, start afresh... but so many people fall at the first or second hurdle, slipping back into their familiar routine.
And so January can be a depressing time, when ambitions are raised and dashed, and the half-lit gloom of a winter's month conspires to convince you that life is just so bloody boring and dull.
And then February comes with its Valentine's Day and promises of an early spring, and things start to improve. And then March and April bring their Easters and warmer weather, until we're back into the swing of things come May.
That all seems a bit of a ramble, reading it back, but it was a stream of consciousness, so I'm leaving it in! But what I did want to say was that New Year, for me, is a mixed bag of emotions. I'm happy to welcome in 2015 with a few drinks and a song, but underneath the surface merriment, there is a nagging feeling of melancholy. I wonder what 2015 will bring?
Certainly, for me, 2014 was a year of renewal and change. In December 2013 I had what might be described as a mini breakdown. I was signed off work, depressed and disillusioned. One day I might actually write about it.
It took me a month to get back on track and "rediscover myself", as my doctor ordered. And I did that, so by January 2014 I was re-focused on the future and trying to get out of it what I wanted.
It can take time to figure out what that is, too, and sometimes you have to identify what you don't want first before coming upon what you do want.
And so by the end of 2014 I've got married (after 18 years together already!) and quit my job, a job I'd been in for far too long, which was not healthy for me, and which I no longer fully believed in. It was time to make a change for the better while it was still possible. It was a brave move, but very definitely the right choice.
And with brave choices comes the fear of the unknown. But whatever 2015 holds, for me as well as mine, it must be faced with strength and fortitude, with enthusiasm and, where appropriate, joy.
Because life is not a rehearsal. You get only one of them, and this is it. It's so important to make your life what you want it to be, or as close as possible.
You won't get another chance. Not in this lifetime...

PS: It's interesting looking back on my blog post from December 27th last year and reading how I was feeling with the onset of 2014. I was looking forward to it and was convinced it was going to be a good one. Which it was. So this encourages me to look to 2015 with even more enthusiasm and a positive outlook. Let's see what the morrow may bring...

Better late than never (pics from the Big Day)

Thursday, May 1st, 2014

One of my favourite pictures, of me and Gareth at the strawberry prosecco reception

I promised some time ago to let those people interested see some pics from the civil partnership ceremony back in February, and it's taken time to get pictures from friends and family and even more time to get round to collating them. Here's a selection of our very happy day and the "honeymoon" (argh!) afterwards...

Him and me, my mum and my dad

The newlyweds

I love this photo. Me with my mum, captured in a moment which
wouldn't be out of place on the cover of a Carry On film DVD

This was a double-selfie taken in the hours before the ceremony.
I was ten times as nervous as I look here! Gareth was Mr Chilled.

Where we had the reception, the Marco Pierre White restaurant at
 the Doubletree by Hilton, Chester. Excellent venue and amazing service

The laid table before the guests dined.
That helium-filled balloon lasted a month!

Another of my favourite pictures: me with my mum and good friend Erika.
I felt like I was in a maternal sandwich!

One of the few pics taken of the both of us on "honeymoon" in the lounge of
 Langley Castle, Northumbria. Beautiful, fairytale place.

The civilly partnered rabbits handmade by my good friend Eva, who sadly couldn't make it on the day.
 These guys are ace though (and they came in a really gay spangly shoebox!).

The amazing decorated and present-laden desk that I came back to work to after the "honeymoon",
 complete with more flowers than I have ever seen in one bunch (I had to split them into four vases),
 as well as balloons, a banner, the inevitable sprinkles, a cake, champers, cards and vouchers.
A special day.

Coming out again and again

Thursday, March 6th, 2014

The delicious (and I mean delicious) wedding cake from my mum and dad

When you're born a homosexualist like me, growing up is so much more complicated than it is for heterosexualists, and let's face it, growing up isn't easy at the best of times. Just becoming and being a teenager has a wealth of its own obstacles to overcome.
But when you're gay, it's even harder because while all the usual adolescent stuff is going on, you're also trying to work out why you have these feelings which seem different to those of your friends and family, and once you do manage to put a name to how you feel, there is the huge obstacle of actually accepting it and then being brave enough to let other people know.
Some people take years - decades, even - to realise or accept that they might be gay, others know early on and just get on with it. But there's one thing that almost all gay people have in common, and that's the dreaded day they come out for the first time.
I'm not going into the trials and tribulations of coming out here, but what I do want to write about is the phenomenon of the never-ending coming out. Because it doesn't happen just the once, you know. Coming out can happen every week, every day perhaps. You come out the first time to someone close to you, maybe your family or a friend, but then for the rest of your life you're constantly coming out again and again to people who do not know.
Society assumes everybody is heterosexual, it's the default. So every time I meet a new person, that person will automatically assume I am straight and that I have a girlfriend or wife. And so often you have to correct somebody's assumption, resulting in a mini coming out.
This happened yet again last night on my college course. Everybody had known for weeks that I was getting married, and were very excited for me, and yesterday was the first session back since the big day so there were lots of questions.
And then came that question: "And did your wife enjoy it?"
I politely replied: "Husband, actually." And they were very apologetic and not a little embarrassed, but all was fine and we just carried out chatting about the day.
But as the evening wore on and I chatted with more people, it kept cropping up again. "I'm sure your wife was as stressed as you were"; "It's good that you're learning to cook, it'll take some pressure off your wife"; "Now you have that ring on your finger, you're wife has control!"
And to my shame I just stopped correcting them because the first time I'd done it, it'd really embarrassed the person. Now the fact they made an incorrect assumption isn't my fault of course, and I fully understand why they did, but I just felt uncomfortable having to create awkward situations constantly just because I love a man instead of a woman.
Society makes assumptions all the time - even I assume everyone I meet is straight! - but it can get so tiring being the exception to the rule sometimes, and also pretty demoralising. Most people do not have to declare their sexuality every time they meet a new person, but when you're gay, you often do. It's a constant requirement to label and define what you are in terms of who you choose to sleep with rather than any number of other far more interesting aspects about you.
So it's been really bugging me that I didn't correct some people's assumptions last night because now they think I am married to a woman and I never told them I wasn't. The fear of being gay and being disliked because of it never quite leaves 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 marriage is announced

Tuesday, February 4th, 2014

Two rings to bind one love

It's been in the pipeline for many months now, but as I am not the kind of person to crave being the centre of attention (says he, writing on his internationally published blog), I haven't been publicising it very widely.
Until now.
Truth is, in 11 days time, I'll be a married man! On Saturday, February 15th, 2014, Gareth and I will be standing side by side, saying vows to one another in a civil ceremony, exchanging rings and pledging ourselves to one another for the rest of our lives.
It's been a long time coming too, because that very same day is our 18th anniversary. It's taken 18 years to get to the stage where we - as same-sex partners - can finally "tie the knot".
Well, that's not strictly true. Civil partnerships have been legal since December 2005 in Britain, it's just taken us over eight years to pull our fingers out (and slip them into matching gold rings).
And the even truer truth is that we've waited so damn long to do this that we're almost out of date straight away. In March 2014 it will be legal for same-sex partners to get married, so we are only six weeks away from a new improvement in the equality laws.
What will really happen is we'll become civil partners (the first time we'll have been civil to one another for years - joke!) and at the end of March we apply for a marriage licence, which will be granted due to the civil partnership being in place.
Some people might wonder what the importance of doing this is after almost two decades co-habiting, but it's important, both from an equal rights standpoint, and just due to the fact we love each other and why the hell shouldn't we? I won't list here all the reasons why being civil partners or recognised as a married couple is better from an equality point of view, you can Google that up for yourself.
But what I would rather you look up is the lack of equal rights for gay people overseas. The UK is a forward-thinking, liberal society that may have taken its time to get to this point, but at least it's moving forwards, not backwards, as in some countries.
Russia - soon to be in the international spotlight thanks to the Winter Olympics - has a shocking gay rights record. Apparently there are no gay people in Russia (population: 143 million).
In Iran, they have been known to hang people for being gay, and in Uganda they are trying to pass an act of Parliament to make being gay illegal, and punishable with imprisonment. There are also efforts to make it against the law not to report a person you suspect is gay to the authorities.
All this hatred and bloodlust in the name of love, the strongest force we have.
What I am saying is that just because gay rights have made huge leaps forward in the UK, doesn't mean people don't still hate me. Hatred exists in the UK, but sadly attacks on gay people are rarely reported as widely in the media as those on straight people.
And most worryingly of all, hatred for gay people in parts of Asia and Africa is actually growing, not dying away.
And this makes it even more important for Gareth and I to exercise the rights we have as a same-sex couple next week. I hope you wish us well, but please do not ignore or forget those who are not so lucky, those who do not feel as free to simply be themselves.

This isn't Gareth and I, but they're just as good looking as us from the back!