I have vague, yet fond memories of my first letter of complaint. It must have been two decades ago now, but I will try my best to paint the scene for you.
One Summers Day, not dissimilar to the scorching heat we have been benefiting from of late, we were sat around the table, tucking into some homemade scones. Being Devonians, firstly, we smothered the scone in cream, Devon clotted cream to be precise. Then it was the turn of the jam. The perfect accompaniment to the perfect cream tea. Strawberry jam, with bits. Then we saw it, floating in the middle of the jam pot. A bug of some description. There was a bug in our jam. A not so welcome visitor.
And so I wrote my first ever letter of complaint. It went a little something like this:
“Dear Mr. Jam Maker, I was making myself a cream tea today when I stumbled across a bug in my jam. I have attached the not so welcome visitor for you to see. Yours Sincerely, Elizabeth Oldershaw.”
And so, I sent it, my first ever letter of complaint, with the not so welcome visitor sellotaped on.
About a week later I received a very special parcel. A parcel filled with two pots of strawberry jam, but more importantly, a letter of apology.
If only it was this simple these days.
Like most aspects of my life, holding a driving license has not taken a particularly straightforward course. To briefly summarize; I have passed twice and lost it thrice; once for speeding and twice for seizuring. When you have a seizure you cannot drive for a year. No matter that the reason you had a seizure was because your brain was inflamed. No matter that you now take medication to stop your brain being inflamed. No matter that you do not have epilepsy. You are all put together in the same box.
Living in the depths of Devon and not having the capacity to drive is quite the hindrance. Whilst the special new gold buses with flush leather seats and unlimited free wifi have caused quite a buzz, it is the inability to get anywhere easily that is the pain. Add that onto the mile walk to the bus stop and it seems to be more of a deterrent than an encourager to use public transport. I just want to drive again!
I’m not sure the DVLA realise this though. DVLA should really stand for Delays Very Long Always, or something along those lines. I have been waiting for three whole months to get my license back. Yesterday I received a letter from them informing me that it will take yet ANOTHER 6 weeks just to get a letter from my neurologist. Summer is passing.
Perhaps my five year old self’s letter of complaint was along the right lines.
“Dr Mr. DVLA, I have been waiting for you to send me my driving license for nearly 3 whole months. I would attach my freedom, but you have taken it from me. Yours Sincerely, Elizabeth Oldershaw.”
I can’t sellotape on my lack of freedom, but hopefully this would get my point across.