Today, I received an angry e-mail from a disgruntled recipient of a reports I’m helping to generate. Turns out the data on the wasn’t all that up-to-date, and she wanted to know why.
The first reaction I had was that of defending myself: you read the report wrong; it’s the system’s fault; (and) you’re an idiot [fullstop]. Then I caught myself.
Maybe influenced by past experiences of great service I’ve experienced, as well as customer-service-oriented shows like “Can You Serve” in which a guy I knew in the army unbelievably won, I admitted my mistake, apologised, and asked how I could do better next time.
After sending that e-mail I felt pretty good about myself. It was so unlike me that for a moment I almost felt like I’d finally matured into an *gasp* adult (in fact, the huge, HUGE PR faux pax by Paul Christoforo is probably closer to what I’m naturally inclined to do; by the way, if you haven’t read about this sad yet hilarious incident, please do – you won’t regret it).
Whether or not yet another nasty e-mail is returned from my e-mail is irrelevant, once you realise the possibilities of returning stinky poo with sweet smelling roses. Even then though, I must admit to feeling a little apprehensive of receiving a nasty one after my being Mr. Nice Guy – I’m so thinned skinned if I stood in front of a light bulb that’d be all you see — a light bulb.
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