Don’t ask me nothin’
about nothin’, I might even give you the truth
Market Research questionnaires - the end of the world as we know it...
Cold showers at the swimming pool today again. It was built
five years ago and, for most of that time, showering’s been like being sprayed
by hailstones. Then, as I was leaving, a woman waved a questionnaire under my
nose. Just to add to the misery.
“We value your opinions,” she said. “It’ll only take three
minutes.” “That means ten,” I grumped. “Noooooo,”
she purred, being careful not to say what she really meant: “You stupid old bastard.”
I was about so say “So you don’t value my opinions, then,” when I remembered
the showers. Here was my chance to air my voice. “OK then,” I muttered.
I was manhandled into a chair as she thrust some A4 sheets and
a pen into my hands. The paper was covered with 8 point type from edge to edge.
One blink and I was already in need of an aspirin. I turned the page over, afraid.
The worst happened. It was double-sided.
I was invited to give my thoughts on the toilets, the
courtesy of the staff, the efficiency of the staff, the cleanliness of the
foyer, the cleanliness of the poolside area, the ease of use, the quality of
the food, the value for money of the food, the value for money of the pool, the
courtesy of the food, the value for money of the courtesy, the edibility of the
equipment, the supervisor’s tattoos, the inpenetrability of the attendants rap
slang...
…all on a scale of one to five, where one means ecstatically
brilliant and five means incitement to murder.
And on the second
sheet, I was invited to mark the importance to me of all the above on a scale
of one to five where one means…. I think you’ve got the picture.
Five days later I got to the end. There was not one question
on the showers. “My main comment,” I told my inquisitor, “is that the showers
are freezing and have been for five years.”
“That’s terrible” she purred.
“But that’s the only point I want to make,” I grunted, “the
rest is bullshit.”
“Sorry,” she said, arranging her face into the sympathetic
look policeman are trained to give when they have to tell someone their dog’s
been run over, “it’s not on the questionnaire.”
That’s ten minutes – sorry, five days - of my life I won’t
get back.
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