The Art of Conversation - Catherine Blyth [88]
Conversare: “to turn around often.”
Who needs argument, if you can convert him?
HOW TO COMPLAIN
Complaining troubles those for whom it is a confession of weakness (self-censorship at which adherents of the stiff-upper-lip tradition excel). The consumerist ethos is emboldening many. Still, in private life, asking for more, or less, or better, or faster, can be daunting.
Thank Dr. Thomas Gordon for his handy three-part complaint formula:
When you do X I feel Y because Z.
This neat assertion of cause and effect imputes no blame; indeed, it presumes the culprit is unaware of what he is doing. And it is literally undeniable, because only you know how you feel. Whether he feels you should feel that way is another matter.
So if you’ve bought a pair of dirty shoes, bitten through an elastic band in your salad, or been bumped off your flight and are stranded in Rotterdam at three in the morning, consider how unwelcome orotund rages will be to the person on the other side of the counter—the only person who can help. No need to wheedle; simply assume he wishes to resolve the situation as much as you, and take it by degrees.
Level one: Present your dilemma, but let the other person define it—thereby taking ownership of the problem. As in “I took them home, got them out of the box, and then I noticed”; “Look what I found in my lollo rosso”; “We’re stuck.”
Level two: Has he upbraided you for sharp teeth? Is he thick? Work-shy? Still assume cooperation, using questions to outline, without dictating, what you think he should do to help: “Can I have the refund direct to my account, or do you have another pair?” “Shame, I was really enjoying the salad. Perhaps you can throw in pudding.” “Which hotel do you usually put people up in?”
Level three: No advance? Try a forceful yet positive statement: “In the past this was okay. It would be a huge help if . . .” “Please remind me of the procedure for claims . . .” As you raise the stick, keep the carrot dangling: “It is really kind of you to take the time/lend me your pen . . .” He may be doing his job to the barest minimum; nevertheless, help him feel good about helping you, and act as if it’s a great personal favor. He may succumb to the undertow of obligation you’ve implied.
Level four: He is blaming you, suggesting you wore the shoes, arrived too late for your flight, etc. Try mild self-assertion, focused on how he gains from solving your problem, and seek advice: “I’m sorry to inconvenience you. We realize you don’t set the policy. How can we get out of your hair?”
Level five: An absurd excuse deserves commemoration. Write it down, asking him to repeat it, to help you “understand” his position. Check spellings and punctuation, ask for the complaints form and his assistance filling it in. The goal is to make it less trouble to satisfy than refuse you, with passive-aggressive attrition. Don’t be fobbed off: Grin till your teeth hurt.
Level six: Outright accusation, such as you went break dancing in those sneakers, or ordered that £500 bottle of St. Emilion knowingly (so what if you drank it). This is a gift, breaching the service industry code: The customer is always right.
Show how hurt you are. “Are you calling your customer a liar?” Write his answer down, acting the detective—of the genial, Miss Marple variety.
Level seven: Cry.
TYPOLOGY OF BORES, CHORES, AND OTHER CONVERSATIONAL BEASTS
THE UNIVERSAL EXPERT Omniscientus caudex
No sooner has the Universal Expert asked what you do than he is explaining how to do it better. Fussily furbished minds can lack sensitivity. At a hotel the sotto voce dining room was nightly kebabbed by an amateur food critic’s commentary: “This is good,” “This is not good,” or “Almost good—but not quite,” severally repeated, between each bite.
I met a quintessential UE at a dinner. He