When Data Protection fails

When does Data Protection cease to be in the interests of those it claims to protect?

Well, let me tell you a little story ...

Today was book launch day for me so Mr Misfit and I headed to our lovely local pub on Putney Common with The Alfie Dog for a quick lunch and a glass of wine.  As we crossed the common we spotted two lads on a scooter chucking (what I thought was) a bag of rubbish.  Grumbling and complaining about their lack of consideration for our environment, we approached it. It was only when we got closer that we realised that it was a hand/baby changing bag. Once we realised that the bag contained a purse, bank cards and car/house keys it was too late. The little b*stards had done a runner before we could get their number plate.

SO ... off we headed to the pub where the young barmen were very helpful, offering the phone and advice.

Far more helpful than the police when we called 101.

'We don't deal with lost property.'
Erm, it's not lost property, it's clearly a theft (or possibly a mugging and the poor woman could be bleeding to death somewhere?!)

Furthermore, they only took details of where the bag had been dumped and OUR contact numbers - not the victim's name or address, which was on her driver's licence.

We then asked if they could contact her via the DVLA, knowing they have access to their records.
Nope!
Really?  Wouldn't that make sense? Give her a call, put her mind at rest and stop her cancelling her cards or having her house locks changed?

OK. So, following their guidance (I use that word loosely), we called NatWest and asked if THEY could give her a call.  We were then told that they could only report her card as stolen.  Even when we explained that we didn't expect for them to give us her number, all we wanted was for them to contact her and say we had her bag, bank cards and HOUSE keys - with her ADDRESS - we hit a brick wall.

Madness!

It seemed easier to head to  her house - basically giving up on a world that has gone PC to the point of obstruction.

No-one home.

Left a note and our mobile number.

Eventually we received a call from a police constable who told us that he was with the lady who was terrified that the b*stards might have broken in to her home with her house keys. No sh*t, Sherlock!

To cut a long story short, we have now delivered the bag back to the frazzled mum and, had the system worked more efficiently, she might not have had QUITE such a crappy day.  She told us that the police were just leaving her house and telling her that she'd need to have all the locks changed, at considerable expense, when she just happened to see our note in the letterbox.

She called us her 'angels'.

If it wasn't for 'angels' like us and if the bag had fallen into the wrong hands, the police and the banks would have been partly responsible for the possible outcome. Surely authorities should act while the trail's still hot and realise they have it within their power to shorten the victim's agony by reuniting them with their precious belongings as quickly as possible and prevent any further angst.

God help us if the man in the street has more common sense than those whose duty it is to 'protect' us.

Cold-shouldering Cold-callers

I've chewed up and spat out not one but two cold callers this week.  I’m still not sure what they hope to gain from their scams and I also don’t know why they’re always Asian sounding gentlemen who go by the name of Mike, John, Robert or Dick.

Let me talk you through cold caller #1

MIKE:  (with very heavy accent)  Good morning Madam, I am calling regarding the car accident you had.

ME:  Car accident?

MIKE:  Yes Madam. You have had a road traffic accident?

ME:  Oh!  Yes!  Yes, the cow just came out of nowhere.

MIKE: (confused)  No, madam, not a cow.  A car.

ME:  Yes.  I hit a cow with my car.

MIKE: (in shock)  You hit a cow with your car?

ME:  (innocently) Isn’t that why you were ringing?  Doesn’t it show on your records?

MIKE:  (blatantly lying now) Oh yes, madam, but did you make an insurance claim?

ME:  No.  I didn’t think there was much point in suing a dead cow.

MIKE:  (very confused now)   Have you had any other accidents in the last five years?

ME:  (thinking)   Erm … oh wait … oh yes!  I hit another cow.

MIKE:  (incredulously)  You hit another cow?!

ME:  Yes.  I don’t like cows very much.

CUE husband doing a huge MOOOOOOO in the background and me shouting out:

WATCH OUT!  HERE COMES ANOTHER ONE!

CUE:  Mike hanging up as he realises he’s been taken for a ride.

Cold caller #2

ROB: (heavy accent again)   Good morning Madam I am calling from ***** *** ** Computer Services. We understand that you are currently experiencing difficulties with your PC and if you follow our instructions we will be able to solve your problems.

ME:  (sounding like a simpleton)  Oh yes, how clever of you.  I have been having problems.  Will you be able to help me?

ROB:  (obviously rubbing his hands together thinking he’s got a right Dumbo)  Yes, Madam.  Now you must follow my instructions very carefully.  Turn on your computer.

ME:  OK.  Erm … how should I do that?  Should I lick it maybe, or stroke it?  Maybe whisper some dirty words?  What do you think would work best?

ROB:  (clearly thinking he’s misheard)  No Madam, turn it on.

ME:  Yes, I heard you.  I asked which method I should use.  Licking?  Stroking?  Which?

ROB:  (realising that he’s being wound up)   You know what, Madam?  If your computer is playing up you should throw it out of the window.  Can you do that?

ME:  Well yes.  I did that this morning.  So does that mean I have to go outside to lick it now?  That’s jolly inconvenient you know.

ROB:  (really warming to it now)   Yes, Madam go outside and smash it up with your legs.

ME:  Oh, Rob!  How saucy! Are you thinking about my legs?  My thighs?

CUE:  Rob hanging up.

Ah yes, fun with cold callers.  My improv days at drama school were clearly not wasted.

You can see my other blog on this subject here.

Fun with Cold Callers!

Are you sick of cold callers?  I know we in the Misfit House are - sick and tired of receiving calls from rather Asian-sounding gentlemen (and yes, they always have this accent) called Kevin Smith or Mike Jones!  I mean, really?

Before you all start saying ‘Well they have to make a living!’, I think you’ll find that they are shysters and what they’re doing is just a workaround for something that would be deemed illegal for a UK company -  would you defend them if they were robbing old ladies or sex-trafficking?  No.  I rest my case.

So we decided that instead of them driving us up the wall, we’d have a little bit of fun with them.

The teen deals with all the computer/technical calls - no, our computer is not running slow and we won’t give you remote access, what do you think we are, stupid?  He’s been known to tell them that his grandfather was Hitler, he’d like the caller to buy him an Audi and his postcode is 90210.  One of his favourites is to say in an Irish accident, ‘Did you hear dat Margaret T’atcher doied?’  This is usually the point at which the caller gives up.  We’ve also given him fake slaps and he’s yelped, ‘Mummy hit me!’ before hanging up.

I had great fun with ‘John Evans’ a few weeks ago.  Hubbie answered the phone and it was the usual, ‘We’re calling about the accident you had in your car last month’.  Hubbie said he needed to see someone to the door and would just be a few seconds.  We love to waste their time too.

Five minutes later, John Evans was still hanging on the line - clearly thinking he’d nabbed himself a sucker.

He got me - and this is how our call went.

ME: (in a teary voice) He-llo?

JOHN:  (with the trademark Indian accent) Good day to you, madam.

ME:  (even tearier and building into a bit of a crescendo)  No!  No, it’s not a good day!  How can you say it’s a good day when you’re telling me my husband’s had an accident?  He was with her again, wasn’t he?  Go on!  Tell me - I can take it.  (by this time I am sobbing uncontrollably)

JOHN:  Oh no, Madam.  Do not be upset.  I am here to help you.

ME:  (sniffing a little and then becoming flirty) Oh!  Oh, I like you.  What a nice man!  What colour underwear are you wearing?

JOHN:  (silence) …

ME:  (like a mad woman possessed) TELL ME!  What colour underwear?

JOHN - (with a nervous giggle) Are you meaning ‘underpants’?

ME:  (with a growl) YES!  You know damn well what I mean!

JOHN: (a cough and another giggle) Black.  I am wearing black, Madam.

ME: (screeching) BLACK?!  I HATE BLACK!  I want you to be wearing pink!  Do you love me?

JOHN:  (and yes, all this really did happen!) Oh, yes Madam!  I am loving you very much!

ME:  No you don’t, you men are all the same.  You’ve really upset me now.  It’s over - please don’t call me again.

JOHN: (silence and a nervy gulp)

ME:  (I hang up)

‘John Evans’ has never called back.