Mildred Marzipan

‘My name is Mildred Marzipan,* and I've been waiting for FOUR WEEKS for my CD.’

                The woman was in her mid-to-late sixties, and spoke from the get-go with unbridled indignation.  She had ordered in a copy of the Deadwood soundtrack and it was taking longer than expected.  I looked up her account details, then checked the order’s status on our supplier.

                ‘I’m so sorry that it’s taken this long Mildred.  Unfortunately it isn’t here today.  What has happened is it has gone on to back order.  If you’re not familiar with what that means, basically the supplier indicated it was in stock when we originally processed your order, but since then, they have run out of stock.  They’re just waiting to get it back in their warehouse before they can ship it to us.’

                Mildred’s eyes narrowed and she hissed, ‘And when will it be here?’

                I replied that it was impossible to give an ETA as back-order by its nature means they don’t have or know when they can get it.  I told her that it wasn’t out of print, however, so if she was happy to wait, it would arrive.

                ‘I’ve been waiting for four weeks already!’

                I nodded sympathetically, and apologised.  ‘If you would prefer to cancel the order and get your deposit back in full, that is absolutely okay.’

                ‘I don’t want my deposit back, I want my CD! Can’t you ring your supplier and ask him when it will be here?’

                I told her that, no, I couldn’t, as the supplier was on the other side of the globe and would likely be asleep at this time, and that even if I could reach him he would tell me the same thing – ‘I don’t know, be patient.’

                ‘Well, can’t you look it up on the internet and see where it is?’

                Her tone was irate, and I expected that her tightly-clenched fists would soon begin dripping blood.

                Again, I emphatically told her no, it was out of my hands.  Entirely.

                ‘So what you’re telling me is that you can’t give me an answer.’

                I said that that was more or less the case, and reiterated that she had two options, either one of which was perfectly fine.  I was painfully polite, in spite of her ever-growing rancor.

                The phone began to ring as she continued voicing her outrage, and I said, ‘I’m sorry, but unfortunately there’s really nothing I can do.  I am happy to refund you, but otherwise you will just have to wait.  Now can you excuse me for just a moment while I grab this phone?’

                Mildred’s reply was furious, each word enunciated in short bursts of rage: ‘Don’t ever serve me again.  I don’t ever want to have to look at your face again.’

                I sighed and rolled my eyes, feigned politeness lost, and answered the phone. ‘Hello, can I help you?’

*Mildred Marzipan was not her real name.  But her real name was just as exciting an alliteration…