Apparently, I had a delivery experience the other day. Not a delivery. Not two blokes dumping a dishwasher in the middle of my kitchen and legging it. No, an experience.
Like I’d just queued for Space Mountain and got strapped in for a thrilling ride where the dishwasher soared through hyperspace and gently docked itself under the counter.
Instead, two lads wheezed it off the van, scraped my hallway wall, dumped it on the floor, and left. That’s the “experience” I’m being asked to rate on a scale of 0–10.
Did they smile? No. Offer me hors d’oeuvres? No. Did they even remove the box? Don’t be silly.
But hey, my phone buzzes with a chirpy survey:
“On a scale of 0–10, how likely are you to recommend our service to family and friends?”
Recommend what, exactly? The way one of them sneezed into his elbow? The way the other scuffed the lino?
Delivery companies — stop pretending you’re Disney. It’s not an experience. It’s just a bloke with a van.
My score: 2/10. One point for showing up, one point for not dropping it on my foot.