I spend about 90% of my working day as the 'middle man' – often playing referee between high-flying (art-buying) execs and whimsical 'I live to create' artists or acting as the buffer between customs clearing agents and 'just visited Africa' tourists.
It's my job to keep the peace and make sure that both the price and the customer are always right. Often more easily said than done... because every client wants an even better deal than the last one and every painter is always playing the 'starving artist' card. Some days I feel like Robin Hood in reverse, pecking away at the poor's profit margin only to give it to the rich dude so that he can buy his third wife the latest Louis Vuitton purse.
Case in point – my always chic, tragically fashionable interior designer who has just moved into a mansion that could house a small West African village comfortably and still have room for the English soccer team and their WAGs. You'd think that he'd be happy to pay the amount on the price tag for the painting he 'just has to have, darling'. Alas! That would be too easy ... and I wouldn't have been reaching for the Myprodol before lunchtime – as was the case after multiple phone calls to the artist and her agent and the gallery owner who is trying to be on holiday in Greece. All of which resulted in a very generous discount that I suspect (it's on its way to him via my painfully slow internet connection) will not be quite generous enough. Sigh.
As for the lovely customer responsible for my post-lunch urge to just pack it all in and pour myself a big glass of wine (let's just say I felt a little like a 2-foot kid playing piggy in the middle with two six-foot Australian rugby players)... This was one round I wasn't gonna win. Note: Still have no idea how someone can crap on you for not getting information to them regarding a shipment when you yourself aren't in possession of the information because the shipping agent hasn't got it to send to you yet.
Ooh, ooh, I know ... perhaps I should've just tapped into my inner fiction writer and conjured up a waybill, a delivery date and sprinkled on words like 'customs', 'clearance', 'documentation', 'export duties' etc. Maybe I could've pulled a Paddington Bear and had the paintings delivered to Peru? Hmmmm, not the best idea I've had, but you gotta give me points for creativity, right?
I am a firm believer in the theory that irritating customers come in threes. And today was no exception:
Exhibit no.3 – the Lebanese customer who thinks that I have the power to effect the exchange rate and make it do what suits me so that I can short change them and keep the winnings to myself (insert evil laugh here). Because of course, that was what I majored in at art school. While all the other budding Picasso's were inhaling paint fumes and pondering their latest creations, I was figuring out ways to turn my mimimum wage waitressing pay cheques into billions of dollars by bending the 'rate of the day' to my will.
(Please excuse the dollops of sarcasm, it's just been one of those days)
It's my job to keep the peace and make sure that both the price and the customer are always right. Often more easily said than done... because every client wants an even better deal than the last one and every painter is always playing the 'starving artist' card. Some days I feel like Robin Hood in reverse, pecking away at the poor's profit margin only to give it to the rich dude so that he can buy his third wife the latest Louis Vuitton purse.
Case in point – my always chic, tragically fashionable interior designer who has just moved into a mansion that could house a small West African village comfortably and still have room for the English soccer team and their WAGs. You'd think that he'd be happy to pay the amount on the price tag for the painting he 'just has to have, darling'. Alas! That would be too easy ... and I wouldn't have been reaching for the Myprodol before lunchtime – as was the case after multiple phone calls to the artist and her agent and the gallery owner who is trying to be on holiday in Greece. All of which resulted in a very generous discount that I suspect (it's on its way to him via my painfully slow internet connection) will not be quite generous enough. Sigh.
As for the lovely customer responsible for my post-lunch urge to just pack it all in and pour myself a big glass of wine (let's just say I felt a little like a 2-foot kid playing piggy in the middle with two six-foot Australian rugby players)... This was one round I wasn't gonna win. Note: Still have no idea how someone can crap on you for not getting information to them regarding a shipment when you yourself aren't in possession of the information because the shipping agent hasn't got it to send to you yet.
Ooh, ooh, I know ... perhaps I should've just tapped into my inner fiction writer and conjured up a waybill, a delivery date and sprinkled on words like 'customs', 'clearance', 'documentation', 'export duties' etc. Maybe I could've pulled a Paddington Bear and had the paintings delivered to Peru? Hmmmm, not the best idea I've had, but you gotta give me points for creativity, right?
I am a firm believer in the theory that irritating customers come in threes. And today was no exception:
Exhibit no.3 – the Lebanese customer who thinks that I have the power to effect the exchange rate and make it do what suits me so that I can short change them and keep the winnings to myself (insert evil laugh here). Because of course, that was what I majored in at art school. While all the other budding Picasso's were inhaling paint fumes and pondering their latest creations, I was figuring out ways to turn my mimimum wage waitressing pay cheques into billions of dollars by bending the 'rate of the day' to my will.
(Please excuse the dollops of sarcasm, it's just been one of those days)
Comments