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After eight minutes of automated messages and telephonic queuing this morning, a real person answered the phone at Cornwall Council. Yes, that’s right, the council to which I pay hundreds of pounds a month. Clearly, it doesn’t spend any of that on common courtesies like answering the phone by, for example, employing Cornish people to do so.

Anyway, as I said, a real person answered the phone. I just press buttons at random while the automated messages give me their useless options, and eventually somebody answers. It makes no difference at all, as far as I can see, if you follow the automated instructions.

Anyway, the real person. He was about 12. He told me the council was looking at improving the voice recognition part of its system. Did I have any suggestions?

“Yes,” I said. “Burn it.”

“Instead, employ some Cornish people to actually answer the phones. Now put me through to Launceston Library.”

The point being, customer service having been “improved”, it is impossible to actually dial the number of the library you want and speak to a person who works there. I was only returning a message left for me to call them back – I’d returned one of the children’s DVDs but left the disc itself in our player. Doh.

“I’ll put you through to the libraries department,” said the 12-year-old. “No, no…”, I yelled, “I want Launceston Library, not the switchboard again….. for pity’s sake… I just told you…” but I was too slow. He’d gone. Four more minutes of waiting.

Finally, a libraries receptionist answered. She tried everything she possibly could to dissuade me from talking to a human being at Launceston Library but by now I was determined. She finally, grudgingly, put me through.

A total of twelve minutes. To call my library. To return their call, as asked.

How did we let it all happen? By permitting this, we have enabled thousands to be thrown out of work and cost us billions in benefits and lost taxes they could have paid through employment, and for doing this we are rewarded not with the promised fall in taxes, but with shoddily, shockingly, hideously appalling customer service and ever spiralling prices. It happens everywhere in everything, and if anybody suggests doing something about it he’s looked at as if he’s mad. What a world we’ve made.

Out of time

It was time I could ill afford. Apart from gazing out of windows, today I have breakfasted the children and delivered them to their place of education; written three sketches for the Radio 4 Extra show Newsjack; hanged out and picked in, dry, two loads of washing; cleaned the wood-pellet burner; cooked a chilli and thrown together some home-made burgers and some tomato, feta and basil salad; returned the children’s DVD to the library; done some shopping (I got my oats, but not the sort I’d have chosen); walked the dog; cut the grass and raked the cuttings, the promised Indian summer having finally arrived at 2 this afternoon; watered the polytunnel; and now, written my blog. For what it’s worth. Next, bed and story-time for the boys.

You can imagine how pleased I shall be to get rid of this broom. It’s chafing a bit now.

Do you know, I might treat myself to a very large gin and tonic, easy on the tonic.

Green with envy

No wonder I’m very jealous of Brother Bertie, Brother Hamster, the Mystery Brother and their jaunt to Rome in Bertie’s horrible old Peugeot.

Bertie, may the Coconut Eating Crab smile upon him, had added sponsorship stickers for Hamster, Brother Fiddle, our Sister at Patrieda Produce and myself to Betsy, the Peugeot. The sort of typically kind unlooked-for gesture of friendship that makes life worth living.

I hope you’ve been following them as instructed last week… (www.iainbassett.wordpress.com ) and we wish them a safe journey home. We’ll let you know how much they’ve made for charity.

And as I type, by the miracle of Twitter I see they’ve made it! Here’s Betsy in St Peter’s Square. Well done, guys…

By the way, some of us are aware that during their journey, a hideous, mysterious creature was sighted by moonlight in the waters of Lake Garda, glistening evilly. I hope to be able to report on this riddle, but I rather fear a veil of secrecy might be drawn over the matter.

As far as I could see, it had better be a damned big veil. That’s all I’m saying.

And the sin of pride

My Tom, who’s seven now, sat at the computer with me the other night and asked me to play some songs from the iTunes library so he could choose some tracks for a mix CD. I just played songs at random, apart from one he asked for.

Unbidden, he chose Ash’s Shining Light, wherein there is guitar by Charlotte Hatherley that I would have sold my soul to Beelzebub (again) to have been able to play; Show of Hands’ Cornish national anthem Cousin Jack, which Tom and I play and sing together; Let it Be; some Frank Turner tracks (swearing and all, may I be forgiven); a bit of Buffalo Tom (probably because of the name, but you must admit a loud guitar pattern is emerging); the great Joe Strummer and his Mescaleros covering the very mighty Redemption Song, which I used to sing to both of them when they were babies; some vicious Nick Cave; and a loud blast of Little Steven and the Disciples of Soul.

I mustn’t leave out his brother, mind – Jamie has equally impeccable taste, including one of his favourites, Brother Fiddle’s gorgeous Happy Being Me (available on Songs From the Lynher, follow the link on the left to Tony Hazzard). Yes, they are both fond of Queen and Adele too, but both of them loathe the very thought of One Direction.

I’m very proud of them.