Jonathan Dodd‘s latest column. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
I was given a ticket for a concert this week. The Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra, no less, at the Guildhall in Portsmouth. Shostakovich’s First Cello Concerto, and a piece by Prokofiev I’d never heard, and some Haydn. The Guildhall is a shortish walk from the Wightlink FastCat terminal near the Spinnaker Tower, and on a Friday the last journey back is at 10:45pm, so there would be enough time to get back home. I was looking forward to it.
The day before, I looked up the timetable on the Wightlink website and saw that there’s a FastCat service at 6:10pm, so I could relax on the journey and arrive in good time. I got to Ryde Pier about 5:45pm, paid my £1, and then paid £4.20 to park for the evening. A bit steep, I thought, but I wasn’t going to let it dampen my evening.
I decided I would treat myself to a coffee
I queued up at the ticket terminal, and a woman in uniform came past, saying that we could use the ticket machines if we were just buying ferry tickets. I thought that was a good idea, so I peeled off and pressed the right buttons and used my card, and very soon had ferry tickets in my hand, so I decided I would treat myself to a coffee.
They have a Costa at the end of Ryde Pier. I like Costa coffee, and they do a special blend that’s delicious for a small extra price, so I ordered a cup of Latte and the women baristas started to brew it for me. A couple in front of me asked when the next ferry was going to leave because they were taking their daughter to a firework display in Portsmouth.
That’s all they told me
The barista was taking my money for my coffee, and as she was doing so she told them that the 6:10 ferry was cancelled. They asked what time the next ferry was and she replied that it was supposed to be the 6:47, but she wasn’t sure whether that was running or not. I heard this and was puzzled.
“I just bought a ticket for the 6:10,” I said.
“It’s not running,” she said.
“But I just bought a ticket. I need to be in Portsmouth for a concert. Why is it cancelled?”
She became flustered. “I think there’s some event going on and they’re closing Portsmouth Harbour.”
“So when am I going to get to Portsmouth?”
“I don’t know, I only work in Costa, that’s all they told me.”
This wasn’t the middle of the night
I restrained myself, because it wasn’t her responsibility, although I had been told that they sell tickets in Costa for the ferry too. I was puzzled as to why nobody else had told me that there weren’t going to be any ferries. This wasn’t the middle of the night, it was early Friday evening.
So I went back to the ticket office. On the way I noticed a timetable in the corridor I had walked down after buying my tickets. Attached to it was a piece of A4 paper saying that the 5:47 and the 6:10 and 6:47 ferries were cancelled due to mechanical problems. I was more puzzled, because while I was queueing earlier I had seen a screen above the ticket window saying the next ferry was the 5:47.
I would have to run all the way
At the ticket office I asked if the 6:10 was going to be running, and I was told it was not. I asked when the next one would be, and I was informed that it would be the 6:47. I worked out that I would have to run all the way from the Portsmouth terminal if I had any chance of arriving in time for the concert.
I asked if the 6:47 would be on time, and was told it might be. I asked how long it would take to get to Portsmouth.
“That depends”, said the ticket seller.
“What does it depend on?”
“The Q.H.M.”
Going for a swim in Portsmouth Harbour
I started to think I had stumbled into a previously-lost Monty Python sketch, or a surreal version of Twenty Questions, where I would have to ask lots of questions and receive a series of unexplained answers, each one stranger and less unintelligible than the previous one. There was a pause after the Q.H.M. answer, as if that made everything obvious, and I knew I was doomed to follow the script cues.
“O.K. What’s the Q.H.M.?”
“It’s the Queen’s Harbour Movements.’ This was also followed by a pause, although I was none the wiser. I had various visions of the Queen going for a swim in Portsmouth Harbour, and even worse, and it took an effort not to get bogged down in that morass, so I sighed, and saw no alternative to asking the next question.
“What does that mean?”
You didn’t put up a sign
“It means that the Portsmouth Harbourmaster is going to shut the harbour.”
“When is he going to do that?”
“We don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“Because he doesn’t tell us when.”
“But you do know that he will?”
“Yes.”
We ploughed on.
“When did you know that he would, even though you didn’t know when he would?”
“Today.”
“So you knew that ferries would be cancelled tonight, but you didn’t put up a sign, or advise people coming in to buy tickets, or mention it to your Costa staff?”
“We put it on the Internet.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
You wait
I resisted making comments about communication, because I was still trying to work out if I was going to be able to get to the concert or not.
“O.K. So the next ferry is at 6:47?”
“Yes.”
“And it’ll probably leave on time?”
“We hope so.”
“But this Harbourmaster person might phone up to say that Portsmouth Harbour will be closed?”
“Yes.”
“So what happens if he phones up while I’m on the ferry?”
I was actually interested in this answer, obviously, because I was watching my evening melt away.
“You wait.”
“I wait?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“Because the Harbourmaster won’t say until they’ve finished doing whatever they’re going to do.”
This is an island
I thought I had enough of a picture finally to make a decision. I had two things to say. The first thing went something like this.
“This a ferry service. You advertise that there’s a ferry at 6:10, you let me arrive, pay for parking, buy tickets and buy coffee without giving me any indication that the ferry may not be running. Either nobody except you knows about this or they’ve not been told or they didn’t think it worth mentioning.
“You don’t think it necessary to explain what’s going on and I’ve had to extract any information by asking endless questions. You put up with some vague situation where your ferries can be cancelled or held up for an indeterminate time by someone who won’t tell you when or for how long, and won’t give you proper notice or warning. You don’t seem to think this is unacceptable.”
He appeared to shrug, or maybe I just imagined that. “This is an island,” he said.
I resisted my immediate response, which was that I’ve lived on islands all my life, but the inhabitants of the other island, which I was trying to get to for a concert in the evening, wouldn’t be able understand why it was so difficult to do so. I said the other thing instead.
I want my money back
“I want my money back. I can’t get my time back, or the loss of my concert, but you let me pay £1 to drive onto the Pier, £4.20 to park, £9.20 for a return ticket, and £3.35 for a cup of coffee I bought so I could enjoy it during the crossing, without telling me there wouldn’t be a crossing.”
“Have you got your receipts?”
“I have my crossing tickets, the car park ticket is in the car, I’m holding this cup of coffee which is cold now, and the machine on the pier gate doesn’t give receipts.”
“I can refund the parking and the tickets, but I can’t refund the coffee or the £1 for the pier.”
“Why not? Do you think driving to the car park is a separate activity unrelated to catching a ferry? How do I pay to park without having to pay to get to the car park? What am I going to do here at the end of the pier all evening?”
I was getting worked up, so I stopped.
The outcome was that I fetched my parking ticket, I was refunded that and the ticket, and, grudgingly, the £1 for the pier. I had to drink the cold coffee, and I missed my concert. I’m upset about that, but I’m far more upset about all the assumptions that led to my horrible conversation with the Wightlink employee, who, I’m sure was very uncomfortable too. We’re second-class citizens. We don’t stand up for our rights, we don’t complain, we don’t elect representatives who fight for our rights and opportunities, and it’s not just concerts we miss.
A very scary thought
I’m mad as hell. I expect some people who read this will think I should stop whingeing and leave the Island if I don’t like it. Perhaps I should. Perhaps everyone who has any complaints about this lovely Island should leave too, so that only people who think it’s just fine as it is will remain here.
I don’t know about you, but I think that’s a very scary thought. And somewhat sad.
If you have been, thank you for reading this.
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