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We've just sort of borrowed it for the next sixty-three years. It's leasehold, you see, so, despite
having paid a king's ransom, and promising to keep it in good order and wipe around the sink and so
on, in February 2061 it automatically reverts to an owner whose identity I do not know and who may
not even yet be born. (But here's a little secret. I don't intend to do any clearing up after Christmas
2060, so won't he be in for a surprise?)
Now I have owned property in Britain before so most of the process of purchasing wasn't too much
of a shock. All those things peculiar to the British system, like stamp duty and solicitors' fees and
surveyors' reports that cost an arm and a leg and say nothing (" A visual inspection was made of the
heating system, which appeared to be in reasonable working order, though a program of regular
maintenance is recommended, and for this I'm charging you S400, you chump"), were much as
expected.
No, the surprise came when my wife and I flew to London with the demented idea that we would try
to get it more or less furnished in a week. I'm not sure if I had forgotten or if I never knew, but it
came as a
112 surprise to me to discover that the furniture sections of London department stores don't actually
sell anything. They just put out attractive items to look at.
To ensure that no one buys anything, they generally leave these sections unmanned. I believe there
are whole floors at John Lewis of Oxford Street that have not seen a member of staff since just
before the war.
Here, and elsewhere, you can wander around for hours, waving credit cards and calling out "Hello?
Hello?" in perfect confidence that no one will ever come to serve you.
If by some miracle you find an employee who is willing to attend you, it would be wrong to assume
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that this means you will be able to conclude a transaction. We made this discovery on the second
morning when we went to Peter Jones, another large and well-known department store, to buy a
breakfast table for the kitchen. There were about eight types to choose from and, after a careful look,
we made a selection.
"I'm afraid that one's been discontinued," said the sales assistant.
"Then why, pray, is it on display?"
"We're waiting for the new models to come in and we didn't want to leave a blank space on the
floor." But of course.
My wife and I conferred and went for our second choice. It wasn't a particularly special table but it
had a card on it saying that it was available and in stock, which meant at least we could take it away
with us.
"We'll take this one," I said.
"Certainly, sir. We can have that to you by Monday of next week."
"Pardon me?"
"Or the Friday of the following week at the very latest."
"But the card says it's in stock," I sputtered. He favored us with one of those bland, condescending
smiles that you only ever see on people in the British retail trade who are dealing with foreigners.
"Indeed, it is-in our warehouse in Swindon."
"So we can't have it now?"
"No, but you can certainly have it by the second Wednesday of next month."
"But you just said Monday of next week or the following Friday at the very latest, or something," I
said, confused.
"Precisely, sir -the third Tuesday of the month after next. That's assuming it's in stock. Shall I check
for you?" I nodded dumbly.
He made a call and came back to us looking very happy. "Yes, there's one in stock. Would you like
it?" "Yes, please."
He went off to place the order, then came back looking even happier. "I'm afraid it's just gone," he
said. "I can put in a special order for you. It will take about thirty days." "Thirty days to get a kitchen
table?"
"Oh no, sir. Thirty days to process the order. The table itself will take somewhat longer." "How
long?"
He surveyed the order book thoughtfully. "Well, the table comes from Sweden. If the manufacturer
has it in stock and can get it to the dock at Uppsala on the monthly shipment and it doesn't get held up
in customs and the paperwork goes through at our warehouse in Middlesbrough, then I can almost
certainly guarantee you a provisional delivery date by next Michaelmas. Or the one after at the very
latest."
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It was like this for almost everything. The longest delivery date we were quoted was fourteen weeks
when we ordered a sofa.
"Fourteen weeks?" I cried, aghast. Now excuse my rough colonial edges, but fourteen weeks is a
period of time an American shopper cannot conceive of. To an American shopper there are just three
spans of time: now, tomorrow at the very latest, and we'll look elsewhere. The idea of waiting
fourteen weeks for anything, other than perhaps a baby, is unknown.
Anyway, fourteen weeks came and went and not only was there no sofa but no word on when there
might be a sofa. Meanwhile, we had returned to America, so we began a series of transatlantic
phone calls, invariably resulting in our being transferred between departments or put on indefinite
hold.
When eventually we would get through to a real person, we would have to acquaint them with the
astounding idea that we proposed to give them some money in return for a product. This always
seemed to throw them into confusion.
"And what kind of fridge was it you ordered?" a voice on the other end would ask tentatively.
"No, it's a sofa. An ordinary three-seater sofa." "It sounds like you want the Orders Processing
Division-or possibly Accounts Receivable," the voice would say. "Let me ask you this. When you
placed your order, did they give you a yellow slip with a green tag or a green slip with a yellow
tag?"
With a sigh, I would put the phone down and go off on a protracted hunt through drawers and boxes
for the order slip.
"It's actually a light blue slip with a sort of maroon tag," I would announce when I returned.
"Ah," the voice would say in a portentous tone. "I'm afraid we don't deal with light blue and
maroons. That's High Wycombe, that is."
"What's High Wycombe?" "A town in Buckinghamshire."
"No, I mean what's High Wycombe got to do with it?" "That's where they process light blue and
maroons. We only deal with green and yellows here. But you know, sir, if you'd rather have a
refrigerator we can guarantee delivery in time for the millennium celebrations."
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