Ndumiso Ngcobo thinks he might be suffering from battered customer syndrome

An insightful friend recently uttered the oft-repeated refrain, "Good help is difficult to find these days". He said this in the exasperated Victorian tones previously reserved for housewives from Kloof. Let's ignore the fact that my friend is a Zulu man from deep rural KwaZulu-Natal and that his designated name is Blazza: he has a point.In my capacity as a recently arrived black man aboard the "I can complain about service" train, I can attest that good help is definitely hard to find.Until I started paying attention whenever I was travelling outside of the country I used to hallucinate that it was a uniquely South African problem.I remember trying to purchase a six-pack of beers on special in a supermarket in Blackheath, London some years back. They were going for something ridiculously cheap like £8 a pack. Ignore the fact that this was about R160 for six beers and that, at the time, I could have bought myself two cases of Zamalek ngudus (Carling Black Label 750ml quarts) for that much.story_article_left1Behind the counter was a woman without an upper lip or any sign of a chin. They had a huge sign reading, "Buy ANY six beer cans - £8". I had tasted most of the beers on offer on the tiny island with huge ambitions, including that donkey piss from Down Under called Foster's. So I opted for Stella.Ignore the fact that this Englishwoman's relationship to the English language seemed to be that of distant cousin. She refused to cash the six Stellas, insisting that I had to "mix 'em up". The impasse was broken by a stout Englishman with a Hercule Poirot 'tache who came from the back and also spoke to me in a foreign language. "Le eem have em," he said. He said this like he was a Unicef aid worker and I a Somali orphan begging for a sack of maize meal while waiting to be adopted by Angelina Jolie. I would "of" offered a forceful retort had it not been for the language barrier.I remember thinking, "These people believe that they have just done me some kind of favour."And that, I submit, is at the very core of poor service. I cannot count the number of times I have pressed key 6 for room service but ended up at the reception desk in a hotel. All I want is - I don't know - a toothbrush or an iron, only to be told, "Please call room service directly, sir."When I point out that that's what I did "but since I'm through to you now, will you call room service and have them send up a bucket of ice", the answer is almost invariably, "I'll see what I can do, SIR." And we all know the kind of "sir" I'm talking about, right?The kind that means, "Screw you and your family of inbred swine! You are anything but deserving to be called sir." You're left sitting in your room wondering what you did to Chantelle in Reception to deserve that.However, this is not the "bitch about the service industry" column. This is about the aftermath of poor service - battered customer syndrome.block_quotes_start My expectations of people are so low that when folks exhibit the barest minimum of competence, I go "WOOOWWW!!!" block_quotes_endThe other day I had to go and drop off a bag of the midgets' change clothes at the gym where they have their swimming lessons. The 21-year-old and I walked through the doors like Clint Eastwood and Burt Reynolds in a spaghetti Western. I was bracing for the usual "we're not allowed to keep members' personal effects in the reception area"."Absolutely, sir. Leave me your phone number just in case the bag is not picked up by 5.15pm." Say what? No one had ignored me for eight minutes while they talked on the phone, shuffling sheets of paper and making copies on the photocopier. In fact, it seemed like this woman was actually keen on making my life easier! The nerve!story_article_right2Being a freelancer is a mostly soul-diminishing existence that whittles away your belief in humankind in tiny increments. My expectations of people are so low that when folks exhibit the barest minimum of competence, I go "WOOOWWW!!!"I'm currently on number 3 of a 10-part series of corporate events with an upmarket vodka manufacturer/distributor. When I send them invoices I am paid in full, on time. Every single time.The other day I texted a friend, Kgomotso, who is also a freelancer, and told her about this anomaly. While waxing lyricalI had an epiphany: "But Khandakhulu (big-headed one), they're actually supposed to do this."I have been so battered that I have lost all expectation of being paid on time.The worst is the gatekeeper. We all know the kind, right? Their default response is, "No. I'm afraid I can't help you with that, sir." After 37 calls and three days of consistent harassment you discover he/she/it can help you after all. By that point you're so grateful for getting what was rightfully yours that you forget to look them in the eye and go, "Now, was that so difficult?"On that note: being a sucker for punishment, I have to stop writing this and contact my network service provider to beg someone to give me back the 2.3 MB of data that has just disappeared from my phone like a fart in a hurricane. The call centre gatekeeper wasn't keen on my problem.E-mail lifestyle@sundaytimes.co.za or follow him on Twitter @NdumisoNgcobo..