Whispering Smith Published in the Littlehampton Gazette Thursday April 11th.2013

FASCINATING things statistics but they are very easily manipulated and rarely represent the whole truth and I note them with great suspicion. However, there is one particular stat I would be interested in seeing and that is this, just how many people actually die when on the telephone to BT? I had cause to ring them with an account query last week. I followed the ‘contacting us’ directions on the reverse of the bill and phoned the contact number – here consider the word ‘contact’ very loosely. A series of choices leads to another series of multiple choices, all offered by a recorded voice until eventually you are right back where you started. So take an alternative route and go on line to BT. Worse than the M25 on a foggy day, the best contact you can hope for is a sort of rapid email chat with someone called Leona. Lack of a satisfactory answer to my query I suspect was due to the fact that ‘Leona’ is, in all likelihood, a pretty name for yet another automaton. Blood pressure rising, heart thumping and tearful, I gave up and went to the New Inn for a glass of wine and some human company. Telling my tale of woe to those at the bar who showed any interest, I learned I was not alone in my near death experience. The following morning I picked up the phone gave it another shot and after the roundabout ride and constant pressing of buttons from out of nowhere, a humanoid voice, a kindly gentleman living in India, who sorted my problem calmly and efficiently in just a few short minutes. A little while later my phone rang, it was BT asking me to share my experience. Oh joy! I am not a man given to rudeness and I save any or most profanities to the wide open spaces of the golf course, but I did tell them in the broadest of terms exactly what I thought of their automated ‘contacting us’ system…

SUCH was the dismal wintery weather this Easter that the prom was deserted, the bustling river walk a thing of memory. I felt so sorry for the LA traders who rely on these short days of spring but was uplifted by the mournful whistle of the miniature railway engine somehow promising a lovely summer.