TriumphAnt

I expend a great deal of bandwidth in this blog whining about poor service, so in the spirit of fair play I think it’s about time to share an example of service that left “good” in its dust as it soared into “above and beyond the call of client expectation” airspace.

At home, we recently had our roof re-shingled. The job actually took a total of three full days spread over Friday, Saturday, Sunday evening and Monday morning. That’s right – Sunday evening. And here’s why.

Near the end of the Saturday working day, the roofing crew’s foreman told me they were almost done, but wouldn’t be able to finish entirely that day. There was still roughly 1/3 of one side of our roof that was nothing but plywood sheeting hanging out in the admittedly wonderful elements – sunny and warm. But he assured me that his crew, before going home, would roll tarpaper onto that part of the roof. If no rain fell between then and the time they re-started Monday morning, that paper would serve as the shingle underlay. If it did rain, he said, they would simply tear that paper up, and roll down a layer of new stuff before finishing the shingling.

An hour or so later, the rest of his crew departed.

Sunday dawned wonderfully, sunny, warm and with the promise of no threat at all to the freshly rolled-out… wait a minute. As I backed out the driveway with the rest of our small family en route to our traditional Sunday ABH breakfast (Anywhere But Home), I looked up at the roof and noticed a couple of tarpaper rolls were perched at one end near the chimney, but the unshingled portion was still bare plywood.

But as the day went on, it started to look like Sunday wasn’t going to end the way it began. A quick check of the weather channel confirmed that rain, possibly accompanied by thunder and lightning, was inbound for overnight.

At this point, I went into Guy “Minimal Inconvenience” Mode (GMIM is, I believe, a generally accepted condition among men who will come up with any excuse in order to avoid having to actually deal with a problem. At its most extreme, GMIM is marked by a sincerely-held male belief that aliens from the Andromeda Galaxy will arrive and fix the problem before we have to look for tools like the correct size of Philips screwdriver that I was pretty damned sure I left in the laundry room after removing the old light fixture…, “So no, I don’t have to deal with it.” But as mid-day became late afternoon and the overhead cloud cover continued its relentless thickening, I decided to phone the roofing company. Because they also operate a chimney maintenance division, they have a 24-hour emergency service number and, being as it was Sunday and I knew there would be no one working in their office, I headed straight to that number.

The fellow I spoke to, after hearing why I was calling, admitted to me he knew nothing about the company’s roofing division but promised to check into it right away and, if there was a problem, he would call back. That was at about 4:30 Sunday afternoon.

Some four hours later, while sitting in quiet Sunday evening mode (a state partly induced by a tremendously successful effort earlier that afternoon at discovering a really good way to make excellent margaritas at home), we suddenly heard a barrage of thumping from overhead. Looking out the front window, we saw the roofing crew’s truck on the street and a ladder on the front porch step running straight up to the roof.

As it turned out, the roofing company’s emergency contact person had initiated not just a callback, but the dispatching of the roofing crew to the job site – at 8:30 on a Sunday evening! – to finish off what, it seems, they should have done before they left the previous evening.

Before they left this evening, the foreman knocked on our front door just to assure us that the thumping we had been hearing overhead for the half hour or so it took to complete the job was not the prelude to the arrival of a SWAT team in search of a marijuana grow-op.

And that night, it did indeed rain very heavily for a short time.

So if you live in the Ottawa area and you happen to be looking for a roofing / chimney company* that not only provides a very good price (which is why we contracted with them in the first place), but who clearly will also respond in a hugely satisfying manner to a client’s concerns, then have I got a name for you!

(*Hint: Fill in the blank in this Irving Berlin song lyric):

“I'm puttin' on my _t—h—_
Tyin' up my white tie
Brushin' off my tails

I'm dudein' up my shirt front
Puttin' in the shirt studs
Polishin' my nails

I'm steppin' out, my dear
To breathe an atmosphere that simply reeks with class
And I trust that you'll excuse my dust when I step on the gas”

To repeat: 8:30 on a Sunday evening!

= = = = = = = = = =

And for those days when you really haven’t said, F*** LABOUR UNIONS!! often enough, let me give you this latest concerning one of this country’s labour darlings, the Canadian Union of Postal Workers (CUPW) (from the New Brunswick Telegraph-Journal, May 31):

“Rural residents left in the lurch by the sudden loss of home mail delivery are appealing for political help as Canada Post continues to shut down country mail routes for health and safety reasons.

Some New Brunswick residents, including seniors and people with disabilities, were told by Canada Post on Tuesday they will have to make 40-kilometre round trips to get their mail.

‘We feel like second-class citizens,’ said John Moreau, who lives in a farming community about 20 kilometres from the Fredericton post office where his mail is now being held.

‘There has been no consultation, no public forum whatsoever. We've just been abandoned.’

The corporation said this week it is reviewing its entire rural mail service following complaints from the unionized workers who deliver the mail.

The workers say they are suffering repetitive stress injuries from reaching into mailboxes. As well, there are concerns about heavy traffic on some roads.

Rural service in a number of communities across Canada already has been suspended, including several communities in New Brunswick and Nova Scotia.”

= = =

Just so you understand what is happening there, you have a postal union whose members are complaining of RPI (Repetitive Stress Injury) due to their having to repeatedly reach into rural mailboxes to deliver the mail.

The gales of laughter that should have greeted that little beauty were, instead, trounced underfoot by the regional postal service (a term that, if not already there, has assuredly earned for itself a fixed-in-stone place on the list of oxymorons for the New Millennium). The posties’ union’s prompt response was to stop rural delivery in that part of the country and order residents who live along those routes to start picking up their mail at a more central location – like say, a corner store and, like say, some 20 km away from their homes.

I can’t help thinking we haven’t heard the end of this. I haven’t ruled out the possibility of a nationwide wildcat postal strike launched by CUPW in solidarity with their brothers and sisters in rural New Brunswick and Nova Scotia.

Neither rain, sleet, snow nor dead of night shall stay this faithful courier from his appointed rounds… OK, so in fairness to those poor, hard-done-by mail deliverers, that classic mail carrier’s motto really says nothing about tennis elbow.

= = = = =

Spotted on an OC Transpo bus: During a recent morning commute, I noticed a woman sitting opposite who was sporting a tank top and gym shorts, certainly not the most common form of commuter wardrobe early in the morning on a weekday. On her top was emblazoned in large letters, “Thai Boxing”. (Without even Googling it*, I’m pretty sure Thai boxing is a combination of what North Americans understand as boxing, with the added attraction of being able to kick your opponent. A really proficient Thai boxer can actually deliver a roundhouse foot to the side of his or her opponent’s head.)

And its practitioners are incredibly fit.

I awarded a quick mental checkmark of approval for someone who chooses to undertake such a rigorous form of exercise in the name of enhanced personal fitness.

Then she stood up to exit the bus and I saw the slogan emblazoned across the back of her shirt: “Givin’ guys black eyes”.

Oh.

Swiftly averting my glance, I returned to re-immersing myself in Book 4 of the Otherland tetrology.

Lest I should’st suffer the black’ning of mine own orbs.

* OK, so I broke down after I wrote my brief description above: http://www.thaiboxing.com/

= = = = =

RIP

A few days ago, on May 24, Desmond Dekker died. A few weeks ago, that name would have meant nothing whatsoever to me. But as readers of our Grenada trip experiences might recall, I was inspired to seek out a few examples of reggae music upon my return, the better to carry the Island experience to our screened back porch this summer (well, that, and a pitcher of ice-cold rum punch).

In my search, Desmond Dekker’s name made a frequent appearance on almost every “Best of…” reggae album whose liner notes I read.

And I can almost promise you that you have heard the song for which he is best known: The Israelites. The song also recurs in a great many covers by other bands, including some who fall under the much harsher “punk” stream. Talk about a crossover!

It might even be a song you don’t even know you knew, but if you seek out a website that offers the opportunity to stream it through your computer’s speakers, even if in no more than a 30-second snip, you’ll probably end up saying something like, “Oh, well I’ve heard that before!”

So with a cheery reggae bop by way of a lament, rest in peace, Mr Dekker / Dacres, and thank you. Now everybody! (Just jump in anywhere):

(The Israelites, by Desmond Dacres & Leslie Kong, as recorded in 1969 by Desmond Dekker and the Aces)

Get up in the morning, slaving for bread, sir,
so that every mouth can be fed.
Poor me, the Israelite. Aah.

Get up in the morning, slaving for bread, sir,
So that every mouth can be fed.
Poor me, the Israelite. Aah.

My wife and my kids, they are packed up and leave me.
Darling, she said, I was yours to be seen.
Poor me, the Israelite. Aah.

Shirt them a-tear up, trousers are gone.
I don't want to end up like Bonnie and Clyde.
Poor me, the Israelite. Aah.

After a storm there must be a calm.
They catch me in the farm. You sound the alarm.
Poor me, the Israelite. Aah.

Poor me, the Israelite.
I wonder who I'm working for.
Poor me, Israelite.

= = = = =

And finally, a tale from the urban graffiti jungle (suburban wags’ edition).

During a recent visit to a large grocery store where I shop, after paying at the cash I passed by a phalanx of large cardboard boxes in which were stored brand new propane barbecues that the store was offering at a special price. (Don’t get me going – having a grocery store that sells hardware and appliances is another debate. But I digress.)

On one box, which obviously had been opened and then re-taped shut, a helpful if perhaps not fully literate store employee had taped this handwritten sign, “handel is missing”.

Directly underneath, someone had penned, “And what good is a barbecue without music?”

Poor me, the Baby Duck.
I wonder who I’m working for.
Poor me, the Baby Duck.

(With a sign-off nod to San Francisco Chronicle columnist Jon Carroll.)
.