Thank you, Ma'am

When we first arrived in the States we faced the daunting job of choosing providers for the different services we were going to need during our time here. I don't remember ever making these decisions in the UK. My parents opened my first bank account where they banked themselves, I used the mobile phone company my friends used so we could talk for free... and electricity and gas, well I don't think I had any choice at all... (did I?).

I don't think you can choose a good bank without first experiencing a bad bank. I didn't realise free cheques were good until I was charged for a chequebook here. I'd never paid monthly charges just for the privilege of having an account, so was surprised when that seemed to be the norm in New Zealand. The same goes for mobile phone companies. The only time I ever had a call fail in the UK because the network was busy was New Year's Eve 1999. With Sprint it happened every week!

I think good customer service is probably one of a company's most valuable assets. But it's only once you've come up against a problem that you can really test this service to their customers. In the future I'll maybe start making bogus calls to prospective providers just to see how efficient the representatives are. And being 'nice' just isn't good enough. They actually have to know what they're doing! Companies here have the very irritating policy of training their representatives to gush a whole line of appreciation before even saying "Hello". Bank of America is one of the most entertaining: "Thank you for calling Bank of America. How can I provide you with excellent service today?" Half the time I can't even work out if I've got the right number. I can't quite distinguish the 'pharmacy' from the "It's a lovely sunny day here at Healthy Pharmacy in California. My name is Britney, agent number CZ3490. How can I brighten your day?"

But we ended up being pretty lucky here. Most of our choices turned out to be good ones. I say 'most', because one was definitely not a good decision. I should have known Sprint was going to be useless when it took over an hour and a half just to set up an account. We must have signed at least 10 forms, all with 3 or 4 duplicate copies. And they only had one Nokia phone in their range. And they lied to us. We already had phones, we really just wanted SIM cards to put in them, as we'd done in several other countries before. The lovely people at Sprint told us that we couldn't get SIM cards in the States. All the phones here have inbuilt chips, apparently. So we were deceived into a two-year contract with this useless company and ever since the day we signed up we were dreaming of the day we could leave.

Two accounts set up instead of one, payment credited to the wrong account, countless dropped calls, clueless customer service... the stories are numerous and very, very dull. So we left as soon as we could - two whole years of agony. And I have no idea whether or not we've made the right decision. Cingular seem to be slightly more efficient, but we have yet to test them fully.

Sprint just won't stop nagging though. Last week I got another bill from them. No idea what for - I wasn't about to question it too closely as it was only for $1.32. I can't access the account online because our numbers have been transferred to Cingular, so we don't officially exist on the Sprint database. I call them twice to pay over the phone and get put in queues both times (15 and 20 minutes long respectively). Probably not worth wasting half my day for $1.32. Finally I get through today and, rather surprisingly, the representative was quite civil and actually wiped the debt, then thanked me for being a loyal Sprint customer. I explained I'd actually left the company and asked for confirmation I wouldn't receive another bill, even if it were only for $1.32.

"No Ma'am, your account is now clear. And may I take this opportunity to thank you for choosing Sprint - you're one of our valued customers, Ma'am."

Pot shot

In our attempt to experience all things American, my husband and I and a couple of friends found a local shooting range and booked a 'guns for beginners' class last weekend. The range, with its impressive arsenal of guns, knives, pepper sprays and bullets, all varying in size and lethality, is a little too close to gang land and LAX airport for my liking but I was slightly reassured by the forced temporary surrender of visitors' weapons on entry to the establishment. It at least gives the staff a chance to examine your armaments and calculate how quickly and nastily everyone would die if someone decided to turn nasty. But I suppose there can't be many people stupid enough to hold up a shooting range. Well, actually...

Anyway, after signing away almost all our rights, we sat, clammy-handed, in a classroom while our gun-wielding instructor spent an hour rattling through some basics. You know, how not to shoot your friends, why "you don't necessarily NEED to shoot" your neighbour, that sort of thing. Once he was happy we weren't going to shoot him in an amateur panic, he escorted us through to the lanes - ear protection and eyewear in place - for an hour of shooting.

My husband had made the casual mistake of expressing confidence in his own marksmanship. I think some guy at a fairground had once told him that he shot well, long before we met, and he was secretly excited about demonstrating this little-known skill of his, proud to show his new wife how well he could protect her from the evils of the world. And he really wasn't that bad at all - in fact, he's pretty good. But unfortunately he wasn't quite as good as me! It turns out that I am actually a really good shot! I peppered the chest of the target silhouette with my .22, my husband standing by, mouth agape. Battling to save face, he encouraged me to move up to the big boys' guns, poised to kiss it all better when I scared myself and backed away. But no, I was just as hot with a Beretta 9mm! My groupings were so good that our instructor even allowed me to fire a shot from his very own big bad gun (no idea what it was, but it had more recoil than the 9mms). It's not often I'm better at something than my husband, so I quite enjoyed the whole experience!

Needless to say, my husband was not having any of this and he was back down there two days later to scrabble back a little pride. And he did well, proving that a little practice (and the absence of a bragging wife) works wonders. I'm fairly competitive, but I'm really not too fussed about increasing my distance and shrinking my groupings. It feels good knowing that if someone handed me a revolver in the heat of a Jason Bourne style shoot-out I might know which bit to squeeze. But I'm just as happy in the knowledge that next time I fish for my grocery store loyalty card, the guy next to me in the queue might catch a glimpse of my firing range member ID and know I'm not just your common or garden housewife...

New tricks

I know I only wrote yesterday but I have something to report. I've discovered that you can teach an old dog new tricks. I'm learning to swim.

I mean, I can SWIM, but only breast stroke. I'm quite good at that: I've taken part in triathlons and regularly swim half a mile in the pool. But it somehow just feels a little bit 'old lady' only being able to swim that one stroke. Front crawl just seems more professional, more athletic, more triathlete...

I nearly didn't go. I was scared of the front crawl breathing thing. I tried by myself a week ago and ended up spluttering, with a mouthful of chlorine, after just a few strokes. "It's not for me", I said. "I'm quite happy doing the old lady swim. At least I put my head under the water!"

But curiosity took over and I paid my $4 (oh yes!) and got my 'lesson' wristband before I could change my mind and pretend I was just there to have a paddle around after a long, hot day. I think I just doubted the ability of the coach. I haven't had any sort of sports training for so many years that I'd forgotten how good coaches are at teaching! It really works!

He (Marty) put us through our exercises: kicking only, one arm up by my head, leg float and just arms, breathing alternate sides. And after several practice lengths I went from not being able to make it across the pool in one go, to swimming eight lengths in a row, no float or anything! It wasn't pretty, but I did it!

One hour, $4 and about a year's worth of self-confidence. Try it.

Miserable inspiration

Oh God, I not very good at this blogging lark. I only feel like writing something when I'm miserable, which doesn't make for very uplifting reading. I get all melancholy when I read something I wrote when I was miserable.

I have a poem I am quite proud of. I wouldn't for a million years show anyone else. It's far too pathetic and, for want of a better word, miserable. I wrote it when a much-loved ex-boyfriend made it clear, after a horrible couple of weeks of ignored phonecalls and overly-subtle brush-offs, that he didn't love me back. And although my poem might not be a masterpiece, when I reread it I do remember quite intensely how damn miserable that unrequited love left me. That has to count for something, surely?

I'm sort of hoping that when my great-grandchildren are going through boxes of old postcards, recipes, love letters and concert tickets (and I assure you, they are already piling up nicely!) they will come across this poem and suddenly understand what a complex and talented individual I was. "She was a poet and just didn't know it!" my biographer will exclaim with a sigh.

Meanwhile, I'd better be careful my husband doesn't find it. It really is very embarrassing...

Strengths and weaknesses

I've just been helping my younger brother complete an application form.

When I was younger, a teenager maybe, I used to get quite excited about filling out forms. I'd always jump to take on the task for my bemused parents, using my neatest, smallest writing and and the least-smudgy biro I could find in the pen pot.

I think it was after doing my UCAS form for entry into university that I realised it wasn't that much fun after all. It's all right when all you have to pen are the facts: name, address, date of birth, mother's maiden name. Your concentration can be focused on curve of the 'G' and whether or not you write the date out in full.

It's when you have to write '150 words about why you want this position' that it becomes less of a calligraphy exercise and more of an academic assignment. These questions really sort out the sheep from the goats. I'm definitely a goat when it comes to this section of a application form.

My favourite question has to be "What are your weaknesses?". I've heard recruiters explanations for this question. And I know it's supposed to be a test of some sort, but I still think it's a very weak question. No one has a good answer to this one. Except perhaps one friend of mine. When asked this particular question in an interview a few years ago, he pondered awhile, and replied with much conviction, "Spelling and women." He didn't get the job.

Driving me mad

If I had to take a guess, I would imagine that fewer than half of the licensed drivers in California would pass a UK driving test.

I was astounded by how basic the Californian practical test is. No parallel parking or three point turns. A simple reverse in a straight line (just to check you know where the reverse gear is I presume) and a few right and left turns and, bingo, you can drive your very own Ford F150 at 65 miles per hour on a 6 lane freeway with 100,000 other bad drivers. The trickiest part of the test for me was the bit when the examiner asked me where my windscreen wipers were. Mmm, I hadn't had much use for those in LA until then.

The combination of unskilled drivers, oversized vehicles and overwhelming volume of traffic makes driving in LA frustrating and exhausting work. Add in a little of the competitive spirit of Hollywood and the laid-back nonchalance of the West-coast and you have yourself a relentless and unpredictable daily struggle.

LA motorists appear to see other cars and their drivers much the same way as a lion sees a jeep full of spectators on a safari: yet another solid obstacle to be torn to pieces or flatly ignored. There is little eye contact from your average LA driver. Rarely do you get a 'thank you' nod or an 'after you' wave.

It's as though, once you climb into your seat and start your engine, you relinquish your status as a human being with feelings and manners, and become part of the machine. Blank stares from one direction meet equally blank ones from the other. It sometimes feels as though another driver cannot actually see you and your car. Your frantic arm-signalling and flashing blinkers edging out into the crawling traffic are met with a glazed and determined passivity. I can't work out if they don't actually notice you or they just pretend not to. Either way, there is nothing in the world that's going to make them give up that precious bit of space to you.

I could fill this blog with tales of LA driving misdemeanors: lack of indicator use, driving too close, drivers so drunk they cannot walk... I shake my fist sometimes, and use my horn often, but it pays to be cautious in this city. A friend of mine had a gun pointed through the window at him as he pulled up to a traffic light last year: the gun-wielding driver didn't like what my friend had said about his erratic driving. So in a bid to stay alive I'm making efforts to keep my frustration to myself and my obscenities muffled by the windows of my automobile.

Growing up

I met my adult cousin for the first time yesterday. We played together as children, paddling in Loweswater lake and getting grass stains at Grandma's, but that was a long time ago. And the cousin I met yesterday wasn't the cousin I knew then.

I watched her talking about a guy she's met and her new job as an air stewardess (the reason for the two day stopover in LA) and suddenly realised she is not my little cousin any more. She's a beautiful woman who has loved and been loved, feels the disappointment of Christmas and buys me a beer in a bar in Pasadena, thousands of miles away from home.