Your House Call is Impotent (to Us)

There was a knock on the door, but before that, there was muzak on the telephone. Forty minutes so far of empty, anodyne sound without substance to pad out the experience, with the heart quickening whenever the line went quiet. Not a pause, but a break that had already happened a number of times; a dropped beat in the Gymnopédies that seemed to repeat every 37 bars.

“Thank you for calling the Department of Social Scrutiny Assimilation Helpline. Your call may be recorded for the purposes of staff training and claimant oppression. Please hold to hear further options.”

“If you are currently experiencing an ongoing assimilation, please press seven on your keypad. If you wish to speak to a customer service contact initiation facilitator, press seven on your keypad now. If you are currently suffering from a customer service contact initiation facilitator failure, please press seven on your keypad now. For all other enquiries, press seven.”

There was a pause the approximate duration of a wasp’s breath. The muzak resumed on the other end.

“We are currently experiencing very high volumes of calls from satisfied customers. There are currently ‘one’ people ahead of you. For more information about the Department of Social Scrutiny, or for a leaflet about our advanced telephone system, please press the epsilon key on your keypad now. For all other enquiries, please hold and we will connect you to an operator soon.”

Tired and beyond his best in terms of reason, he picked up the receiver from the cradle of the speakerphone and brought it down with force onto the speaker, which remained non-compliant and continued to speak.

“We take your call seriously. There are currently ‘three’ person ahead of you. If you would like…”

And so he smashed the phone to pieces.

The call centre recording soldiered on, without regard to the wellbeing of speakers. “To request a leaflet outlining the dangers of wearing oiled glass shoes in a walk-in freezer, please press… ‘six’… on your keypad. To make a complaint about operatives going through your bins and watching you from an unmarked Transit van, please hang up now and answer your door.”

There was a burly thump on the door.

A brief pause. A screech of feedback. Officer Plate addressed the door with a megaphone at point blank range.

“If you would like to escalate your complaint, please open the door now and a member of our compliance unit will be happy to assist you.”

“I’m alright, not today, thank you.”

“Thank you for holding”, came the reply. “Your customer service query has been escalated and will be dealt with straight away. This house call may be recorded for staff training purposes.”

He watched, dumbfounded, as the blade of an axe sliced through the door. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

It wasn’t long before most of the door joined what remained of the phone on the floor. A man the size and demeanour of a nightclub bouncer stepped through the shattered doorway. Richard couldn't help notice that he was dressed in a khaki pinstripe suit and his tie was coloured in British Army camouflage.

The man entered the room with a purposeful stride. He placed an aluminium flight case on the table and meticulously assembled a pen, as if it were an assassin’s rifle. He drew a clipboard from a pocket in the case.

“Mr Atkins? Mr Richard Atkins?”

“Yes, but…”

“Of Wilton Avenue…”

A man appeared behind Plate. Clutched in his hand was the fragment of front door that bore the house number. He handed it to Plate.

“Thank you, Two. Number 64 Wilton Avenue?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“Might I just ask you for a moment of your time to complete our survey?” Plate offered an unconvincing smile, a smile that could drown a man in the Thames.

“What? Do I have any say in it?”

“Yes you do, I’m afraid not.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s volumandatory; that is, it’s entirely up to you but you will face a lengthy jail sentence if you don’t.”

“You mean it’s compulsory?”

Plate sighed. “Well not exactly: It is a free country, after all. As long as you do as you’re told. Let me just assure you that there are no wrong answers, just inadvisable ones, OK?”

“First question: Are you completely and/or deliriously satisfied with the service you have received from the Department of Social Scrutiny?”

“If I say ‘yes’, will you go? ’

Agent Plate methodically documented his findings.

“OK. On a scale from 4 to 17, with 4 being ‘moderately ecstatic’ and 17 being ‘uncontrollably joyous’, how happy would you say you were?”

“What? What on earth are you talking about? Minus several thousand for absolutely livid…”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t enter a minus number - the computer has irony protocols. I’ll just have to put you down as ‘hugely enthusiastic’ and hope it’ll get read as a whimsical aside.

“Finally. Do you consent to your personal information being shared, so that you can benefit from offers and promotions by other carefully selected faceless bureaucrats?”

“If you just go now.”

The Chief handed over the clipboard and motioning for a signature. “OK. If you’d just like to sign the declaration. I, Richard Atkins, am satisfied with the satisfactory conclusion of my customer satisfaction survey as well as the results of my front door structural integrity test. There…”

He signed the document with a leaden heart. Plate separated the triplicate and handed him one part.

“Take that to your nearest office. You can find it in the phone book or just ask for assistance while in your electricity meter cupboard and someone will come around. Our intelligence is second to none.”

Agent Plate turned on his heel, followed by Two, as both attempted to leave via the under-stairs broom cupboard.