Fat Fingers

File the fillet,

Saw the sausage,

Cut the cutlet.

We’ve heard plenty about the lousy customer service in Singapore. We’ve heard how great the customer service is elsewhere. But have we really thought about how to tackle the issue at the root?

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There are a few points that service providers have to take note of.

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Smile. The first thing a customer would like to see is the sales person smiling at him or her. This does not happen often enough though. However, when I am smiled at, I feel welcome, and I feel that the sales person is happy to see that I am interested in their products. Even if I am a complainant at a counter, a smile would surely alleviate my displeasure.

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Study. Yes, it takes knowledge and aptitude to be a customer service representative, or sales person. When I ask about a product or service, I expect the person to be able to tell me everything. Yes, everything.

"The toaster weighs 1453 grams, and the heating element has a life span of twenty thousand hours."

"This rim used to be made in Japan, but of late, the company has shifted it’s operations to China. But don’t worry, the quality controls are as high as before."

"Our shoes always come with their soles stitched on the underside. In fact, our founder, Thomas Middleton, believed firmly that there was simply no better way to bond the sole to the shoe."

Too many stores hire people but fail to educate them on the products they are selling. It has not become the culture to take pride in product knowledge. I dislike it intensely when I am told "I don’t know." If within five minutes of browsing I have not got my answer, I simply never go back again.

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Sincerity. The sales person has to believe absolutely that their job is to serve, to ensure that from the moment a customer steps into the shop or sits at the counter, their every need, even whim and fancy is met. Customers do not owe the businesses a living, and poor or insincere service is a definite turn-off. When I choose a place to eat or shop, it is not merely the product or price that is a draw - it is the service. There is nothing quite like walking into a coffeeshop and have the stallholder wave and call you, clean a table, and pull chairs specially for you and your party. Actions such as these ensure that customers return again and again, and bring their friends too.

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Saving face. The customer is always right. Wrong. Customers sometimes make errors, especially when they perceive the businesses to be out to cheat them. But it is a subtle art of service to carefully, delicately, and discreetly point out the customer’s error. Not in front of everyone else, but where no one can hear it. Doing so reinforces the notion that the business has the customer’s interests at heart, and is willing to take the trouble to save his face - this is especially valuable to us Asians.

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No matter how educated or polished a sales person is, the most important characteristic is the willingness to be servile. Serving is not a day job, or worse, a temporary job. It is a skill, an art, requiring poise, grace and flourish. Carried out with wit, charm and a ramrod straight back. Flexible yet firm. Impeccable.

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Therefore I ask who was responsible for hiring all those chaps out there who smoke outside the shops when not on duty, answer questions with a grunt, slap food on your plate, and never look you in the eye? I would like to say that all these hapless students and neer-do-wells should be fired, right here, right now.

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But wait, it is the management, intent on making money, failing to pay attention to the most salient details that is at fault. They have failed to train their staff to be the best they can be. They have failed to make these people better themselves, and by doing so, have failed to make this world a better place.

It suddenly occured to me that the mundane act of riding a bus was an art in itself, a skill, no less. Of course, this thought occured just as I was about to alight.

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When you flag the bus, guage how fast it is approaching the bus stop, so that you know where to stand such that the doors open right in front of you. If there are senior citizens flagging the same bus, stand right behind them, or as near to them as possible. The bus will invariably pull up right in front of them. If you see middle-aged aunties waiting, stand right behind them too. They will somehow bludgeon their way through the doors, no matter where the bus has pulled up. It is only a matter of following in their wake.

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Always enter by the right side of the front doors. This allows you to tap your card on the right-side reader, and you can then move off unobstructed to secure the best seat(s). If you erroneously enter by the left, the chances will be that the person who entered by the right would have fouled up his or her scan and leave you waiting, opening a window of opportunity for passengers already on the bus to move to freshly vacated seats.

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If you are travelling with your loved one, the person who is proven to be faster must worm his or her way to the best double seat and reserve it. It is infinitely better to have to cease holding hands for half a minute and thus get a couple seat, than to endure thirty minutes of standing and having your bums rubbed by alighting passengers.

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Before you occupy a freshly vacated seat, always use the flat of your palm to slap the seat soundly. The louder the sound, the more comfortable the seat will be.

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Whenever possible, sit right at the back of the bus. It is infinitely better to sneeze on the person sitting in front of you, than to have someone sitting behind sneeze on you. Sitting right at the back also ensures that you have a full view of all the occupants of the bus, including those who are boarding and alighting.

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If there are no forward facing seats available, sit on the seats facing rearwards. It is infinitely better to hold the gaze of whoever is sitting facing you, than to spend a grueling twenty minutes having your bums brushed fifty times, your bag straps caught in someone else’s bag straps, and your nose stuck under someone’s armpit. Another plus point is that whoever picked the green seats meant for senior citizens probably did not bargain on having anyone brave enough to sit facing him or her. So savour the sensation of pressing your knees against his or her knees for as long as the other party can stand it.

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Before offering your seat to someone who looks like a senior citizen, pregnant lady, or auntie-carrying-thirty-five-plastic-bags-of-mush, ensure that you have established meaningful eye contact, in order to ascertain that the person you intend to offer your seat to is willing to absorb your body heat. There is nothing quite as disconcerting as standing up, only to have your vacant seat flatly refused.

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If someone sits next to you and opens his or her (more likely his) legs so wide that you are deprived of any leg opening room, sneeze loudly and flagrantly on your leg that is in contact with the other person’s. The chances of you having more room henceforth is greatly increased. If sneezing does not work, try to work up a fart.

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When the bus is in motion, and you suddenly feel the urge to drink from your bottle, dig your nose, or dig your eye, watch the road ahead carefully to ensure that there is nothing that might possibly cause the bus to brake hard, thereby drenching you, causing a nose bleed, or gouging out your eye. That being said, buses start and stop very quickly for no apparent reason, so it is better to do anything that needs to be done when the bus is stuck at the traffic lights or at a crowded bus stop - the bus is stationary for more than half your journey anyway, so there is plenty of time to dig your nose.

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When you are about to alight, watch carefully (that is why it is better to sit right at the back) to see if anyone else is alighting with you. Let the other person press the bell. It is infinitely better to let someone else press the bell while you reap the rewards and alight without having to do any work. If you are sitting in front, you must take a gamble and hope someone presses the bell for you. If no one does so, wait until the last possible moment, then press the bell. You might just cause the bus to brake and swerve violently, thereby drenching someone, causing a nosebleed, or gouging out someone’s eye. That person deserved it for not watching the road ahead and figuring that someone might press the bell at the last moment.

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Before you press the bell, always watch carefully to make sure no one else is pressing it at the same time. It is quite disconcerting to have your finger almost to the bell and then hearing it ring because someone else pressed it. When you are absolutely sure no one is about to press it, aim for the button, and in a single motion, jab it hard. This must be done at the quickest possible speed, to prevent anyone from ambushing you, and pressing the bell just before you. On the other hand, if you happen to see someone about to alight, wait until that person has his or her finger on the button and then quickly press the button nearest to you, thereby embarrassing the person.

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When you are about to alight at a bus stop other than the terminus, do not stand up until the bus has stopped or almost stopped. Drivers always try to unbalance passengers by swerving violently into the bus bay, and it can be quite a challenge to keep both feet firmly planted on the floor. If you saunter off the bus without losing your footing, you have beat the driver at his own game.

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If you are alighting at the terminus, get yourself to the door way before the bus enters the terminus. Grasp the poles firmly with your feet shoulder width apart to prevent the driver from upsetting your balance. Getting to the door early ensures that you are not kept waiting in your seat right at the back while an endless mass of dawdling people in front alight before you.

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That being said, I still maintain that buses are for the peasants (like me). Who else would consent to using the world’s slowest form of transportation? The least you could do would be to ensure, above all else, that you are able to make the ninety minute journey in the most comfortable way possible.

The trains were particularly crowded in the West Side yesterday. I arrived at Jurong East on the North Line and was greeted by an enormous throng of people jostling to enter the train. As usual, they were ignoring the yellow lines.

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The doors opened and they started to pour into the train, oblivious to the passengers trying to get out. "Heh heh", I told myself. I stuck out my elbows and elbowed the first person unlucky enough to be in my way.

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On the platform, my friend was hopping mad. "Did you know the lady whom you elbowed actually went ‘Tsk’ just now?"

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"Ha ha", I said, "that’s very good!"

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Hopefully she will rub her bruise and think about why she got elbowed in the first place. On the other hand, she might have rubbed her bruise and thought about how ungracious Singaporeans could be by not giving way, instead elbowing her when she tried to board the train.

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In that case, I propose a new culture of sticking out one’s elbows when disembarking the train.

I was telling a friend how therapeutic some things can be. Fishing, gardening, knitting, and other leisurely activities, mundane or otherwise.

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For myself, I indulge in two - practicing the organ and tinkering with bicycles.

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I recently got myself into a fix. Three Bridgestones, one Litespeed, one 700C bike, a Cannondale frame which I know not what to do with, and a great variety of parts and pieces, all waiting to be assembled.

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Walk into my bunk and you will be greeted with a sweet, sickly smell of grease, WD-40, Singer oil, Copaslip, thinner and paint. Add to that the faint odour of mosquito repellant and it will be sure to wrinkle your nose. In other words, my bunk looks, feels, and smells like a bike shop. All it needs is a rotating barber sign outside and a hanging plaque that says "OPEN".

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In the last two weeks, I visited over ten shops, met nearly as many buyers and sellers, and added vastly to my collection of parts and servicing tips. I also met an old uncle whose Titus bicycle was fitted with a four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar Brooks saddle. Now I’ve heard of some very expensive saddles, but four-hundred-and-fifty dollars. That’s really a bit much! But it sure as hell looked like it was worth every dollar.

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E v e r y    s i n g l e    d o l l a r .

Taking ninety minutes to get from Toa Payoh to Boon Lay is bad enough.

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Yesterday, it took me ninety minutes to get from Toa Payoh to Kampong Bahru. Amazing.  Incredible.   Ridiculous.

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Five minutes to wait for the feeder bus. Fifteen minutes to get from Lorong 8 to the terminus. Ten minutes to wait for the 143. And one hour to get to my destination.

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Taking the MRT would hardly have been quicker - after all, I still would have to wait for a bus at Harbourfront.

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Absolutely ridiculous.

A friend of mine remarked last week, "It takes you ninety minutes to get from NTU to Toa Payoh? You must have been cheated! Thirty years ago, it took ninety minutes and cost less than eighty cents; today, it still takes you ninety minutes and costs almost two dollars!"

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I thought about it, and it did make sense. There are a number of ways to travel, in air-conditioned comfort, from NTU to Toa Payoh.

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In a car, provided you’re of middle-class status, or your parents are bloody rich.

In a taxi, like me, when you’re not of the middle-class but still want to travel aside from the peasants.

Taking a 179 to Boon Lay, which takes fifteen minutes, followed by a 157, which on a good day takes 60 minutes, and on a bad day, up to ninety.

Taking a 179 to Boon Lay, which takes fifteen minutes, followed by the MRT, which takes almost sixty minutes too.

All of these methods will cost you at least $1.60, and at the most, $14.00, and that’s provided you travel during reasonable hours.

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Therefore, can you tell me - have we really progressed? Rising oil prices, rising wage costs, higher standards of living, a larger population. Bullshit, I say.

at the SIM canteen, you will find a stall that advertises "mian" (noodles) in a mixture of a dialect "mee" and PinYin prefix which led me to this:

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Hong Kong mee - how do you "Hong Kong" someone? Is this the same as saying "Wedgie" me, or "Slap" me, or is this phrase to be used in the same way as "Bless" me, or "Good gracious" me?

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Wanton mee - I am wild and unruly. Engaging in widespread debauchery perhaps? Therefore, we should:

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Ban mee - because I am wanton.

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But before that happens, Mee Siam, so I won’t kena your ban.

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How about You mee? What’s that? You and Me? Both of us?

would dictate that in order for one to enter a train disgorging its occupants, one should wait for the occupants to be disgorged before trying to enter the train.

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It appears that while Singaporeans have a very clear vision of their desired future (the empty seats as seen through the glass), they somehow fail to understand the reality (of allowing some time to let the passengers out before they can get in).

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The authorities, ever-aware of the need to nanny the public, have taken great pains to melt markings on the station platforms clearly indicating areas to be kept clear to help passengers exiting the trains. These markings, however, are useful only up till the time the train opens its doors, after which all common sense is lost in an orgy of bent spectacle frames and torn watch straps.

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What then, must SMRT do in order to maintain discipline?

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I would declare that nothing else in the world is as efficient as a platoon of recruits. I can also vouch for the speed, order and efficiency with which any request is carried out at a single command. Do we need to resort to such measures to allow passengers to disembark at Boon Lay station safely and efficiently?

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Common sense is really not common at all.

greeted me this evening as I walked to the bus stop with two of my classmates. One went off in a Route A single-deck shuttle bus which appeared to be grossly overcrowded, while two of us remained.

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I was shortly treated to the sight of no less than four double-deck 179 buses cresting the hill, and all at the bus stop were similarly surprised.

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The bus stop soon became a hive of activity as the four buses simultanouesly disgorged and picked up their passengers. Within two minutes, all was silent, as if those shiny red-and-white monsters had never been.

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Not five minutes later, two more double-deck buses appeared, and I watched the same scenario unfold before my very eyes.

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It was not till the two behemoths had gone did the solitary Route B shuttle bus come chugging up the hill.

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Disparity.