Last night, me and me mate Padraic visited the expansive shopping centre of Dundrum. I intended doing the dirt on my mobile phone service provider, O2. Padraic willingly convinced me to switch to Vodafone. He claimed it would be cheaper; the benefits would be tenfold. I have been with O2 since I was sixteen. A year ago, I foolishly signed up to a contract with O2. They had me where they wanted. I wasn’t allowed change my tariff. I had no entitlement to any perks, despite having given them a fraction of my income for ten years. I felt ripped off. Even worse, I felt bitter.
The handsome retail assistant in Vodafone was flirty and helpful. It took the edge off the fact I was cheating on my long-term relationship with O2. The retail assistant showed me a copy of the letter Vodafone intended to issue O2 to inform them I was no longer their customer. I felt bad. Perhaps, I should have called them and explained. I questioned whether O2 would call me and beg me to come back. Padraic thought it unlikely. From behind the counter, the retail assistant gave me a sympathetic smile. I completed the assortment of forms. I didn’t look back.
I feel bad for breaking up with O2 through a letter that wasn’t even written by me. The song “Never, Ever” by All Saints describes O2’s position. O2 needs to know what happened; O2 needs closure. So I did as the All Saints asked when they sang, “You can write it in a letter, either way, I have to know”. But the thing is, O2 won’t care if I write to them or not because they are a bunch of money grabbing bastards and wouldn’t know Customer Relationship Management, if it walked up to them on a sunny day and fondled them inappropriately.