French customer service at its twisted peak

In fact ‘they’ exist solely to f*** up our lives one way or another and spend endless hours in dreaming up and planning the countless ways to do so.

The French accept this and I suspect secretly admire such chutzpah as an intrinsic part of their revolutionary past.

"Up yours, citizen," is the rallying cry of the bureaucrat, salesman, public bloody servant et al.

In person it takes the form of the blank stare and the unbending adherence to a rule once valid when postilions were struck by lightning.

The stare quickly turns to the Gallic sneer of contempt; a withering grimace perfected at the knees of the nursery school teacher who coaches the functionaires of the future.

Attempt one back and you’ll be nose flaring and lip curling for the next hour but you will still lose. They never, ever back down.

Gentle reasoning, letters of proof, logic, the production of every document you’ve ever possessed to prove who you are, will hold no sway if one is set against you. And all are.

But it is on the telephone that this twisted perversion of customer service reaches its peak.

For a start finding a phone number that applies to your query or problem requires the skill of a code-breaker, for they are behind hidden doors and strange designations.

Of course nobody ever picks up until five minutes to closing time when they tease you with a "Hello, may I help you?" before immediately hanging up.

I swear there are office sweepstakes in play for the one who answers and clicks off in the final seconds. Fireworks explode and corks pop for the victor as they imitate the sobs of the broken customer clutching the dead line after a day hanging on.

This week I think I found the all-France champion and he left me not only broken but calmly contemplating ways of seeking out him and his family and wiping every last one of them from the face of the earth – by telephone wire.

But to understand the murder in my heart, you have to realise it was the culmination of more than two months dealing with Orange France.

It began when a friend bought for me an ‘internet in a box’ as with no access to wifi in hospital or rehab this was the only solution.

Bought in an Orange shop it should have been simple as it is designed for non-customers, in particular tourists. It’s a one-off buy with a few hours of wifi and can be recharged online, by phone or with top up cards.

Easy, non? Non. Because my friend wasn’t the person who would be using it, I had to sign a form which was then sent to Orange France.

I could not recharge until they processed the info. It took almost three weeks before they did so; countless treks by others to the shop; proof I was in hospital; mayoral involvement and finally production of my cycling proficiency certificate. (No, I made that last one up.)

Meanwhile even the top up cards didn’t work because the line number didn’t exist as it hadn’t been verified by Orange France.

Finally it was, but meantime my bank card expired and it wouldn’t recognise my new one. Off we went again on the merry round.

For several weeks all finally went well and I was able to recharge online at 40 euros a go, usually only lasting four to five days.

And then one day the Orange shop decided not to recognise my card. I steeled myself to phone.

Three days later, someone finally picked up at Orange France. And so it began. He kept me holding on and off for almost an hour before telling me to phone another number.

"But I can’t because that’s a number if you have an orange mobile," I told him. "I have a UK mobile."

"Use your landline," he said.

"I’ve told you I’m in hospital. Just give me a full number I can use."

"There isn’t one."

"But you boast this box is great for tourists to use in France. They won’t have an orange mobile or number either."

"They don’t have your problem."

"So sort my problem. It should be simple. The card works and it’s been accepting it until now. So?"

"So, that’s the shop’s problem and you’ll need to dial…."

"I can’t dial because I have a UK mobile."

"Can’t you borrow a French one?"

"No, because it will probably take another three days of hanging on until there’s an answer.

"Look I’m in hospital. I can’t walk. I need contact with the world."

"So dial…"

"Arrgh. I haven’t got a French mobile."

"Well, you’d better buy one."

With that he hung up leaving me cursing him and his family to the nth generation and calming myself in inventing new tortures for them all.

Wearily I tried recharging my phone's wifi. It had never worked before. Now it did.

I no longer care why. I’m certainly not about to phone and ask.