Has normal service been resumed? Hard to tell. It’s been an undulating week.
Recovery from Saturday was scheduled for Sunday, but the fatigue bled into Monday and beyond. Yesterday I was up early to run a cautious and pensive four miles before breakfast.
This evening was cool and drizzley. Ideal for a brisk five miles with the club. But I got to the appointed place, and…? And runners were there none. I’ve taken to practising my scales outside the sports centre while the rest of the club orchestra and its craggy conductors muster inside. So I sploshed through the puddles, feeling pretty loose and keen.
Waiting…
The time came and went. Waited some more…
Eventually, the final drops of patience drained away, so I marched inside to drag them out. But the meeting room was empty.
Eh?
Inexplicable.
I cleared my throat, and began: “Thank you for coming along. I’m very glad you could make it. Welcome to the inaugural meeting of the Marie Celeste Striders….”
So I trotted off into the distance. Puzzled and forlorn, like an abandoned dog. The first mile was a damp and droopy experience, but I plodded on, the puddled pavements twinkling in the car headlights. No iPod, as I’d been expecting company. So no soundtrack but the traffic, and a chorus of muffled cat-calls from the kids chomping outside the chip shop.
As always, I soon warmed to the task. On Mile 2, I thought I saw a yellow club singlet in the distance. More than that, I recognised the distinctive, rangey lope of one of the girls who runs in my usual group. Ay-ay? Was she the entire club run?
She was way off in the distance. I was going to struggle to catch her, but decided to take the same path in case she stopped for a breather. So I headed down the hill, along the main road, then into the local park, a decent-sized, semi-wooded ‘municipal facility’ that I’d never explored before.
I saw another distant runner. And then there seemed to be another, coming up behind me. Finally it dawned on me. Every third Thursday, the club holds an informal handicap. Two or three times round the park. It explained the empty meeting room, as they head straight for the park. It was too late to enter the handicap, but I felt better about knowing what had happened.
The good news is that it introduced me to a new running venue. I’ve been on hill-watch recently, and this place has a couple of ’em going spare, and some pleasant paths. It could do with being bigger. I’m not sure it’s expansive enough to crowbar enough miles out without multiple laps — but it could be a target. Run there and back, with a couple of circuits thrown in. Could make a half-decent… 6 or 7 miler.
The grim news of the day is a letter from a debt-collection company, threatening me with the full weight of the law for not paying a slab of money to the appalling Carphone Warehouse. I’ve written about these sharks before. Last summer, I took out a contract with these people. I had a reasonably trouble-free month of use with the new phone, then it began to falter, and eventually expired in my loving arms. Complained. Was told by one of their snotty call-centre staff that they couldn’t replace it as I’d had it more than 14 days. Ordered to trek into Reading where I had to visit two of their shops, being treated like a piece of excrement in both. Dropped it off at their repair centre.
Two weeks later, they called to say the phone was fixed. Another afternoon off work (during my time as a contractor, thus losing money), another visit to Reading. They told me it had needed a software upgrade, but the phone had been checked and was working fine. Got it home. Dead as the proverbial dodo. This time, it wouldn’t even charge up. Perhaps the charger was at fault? M then took it to Carphone Warehouse next time she was in Reading, a few days later. They tried another charger. Still didn’t work.
I cancelled my direct debit. Wrote to them, explaining that they had not fulfilled their side of the bargain, and that the contract was therefore annulled. We traded letters. I’d paid them a total of £134 in charges for less than two months of patchy service. Enough was enough. I told them that if I hadn’t heard back from them within a fortnight, I’d take that as an acknowledgement that the contract was annulled.
And that was about 9 months ago. Since then, not a whisper. Until today. It’s like one of those horror films where the baddy keeps getting killed… but no, he gets up again for another clumsy swipe.
I can see another round of acrimonious correspondence coming on. In the meantime, anyone with a fully-marbled head should make this promise to themselves: I will never, ever do business with Carphone Warehouse. Say it out loud now. Listen carefully as you chant those liberating words: I will never, ever do business with Carphone Warehouse.
Smile. You just made one of the best decisions of your life.
