Note to self: don’t forget to read the fine print
‘Don’t forget to read the fine print’ my grandfather would say every time I was contemplating making an important purchase.
As we all know, fine print is the long and convoluted wording in six-point type featured at the bottom of any receipt, and which invariably requires a magnifying glass to read. Its the bit called Terms and Conditions that you only read once something goes terribly wrong.
Most notably T&Cs, as they are known, include archaic legal words like ‘hereinafter’, ‘whereas’ and ‘deemed’; words we rarely use in our day-to-day language, not to mention phrases like ‘within the meaning of’, ‘duly elects’ (how else do you elect?), ‘best endeavours’ as opposed to ‘reasonable endeavours’ (yes there is a legal difference), and the catch all ‘fees may apply’.
All these words are carefully chosen to ensure that any liability and responsibility regarding the effectiveness and longevity of your purchased product is in almost all instances not the responsibility of the seller. Ever tried changing an airline ticket? Not only are there often subtle differences between changing and amending your flight but it seems a credit for a cancelled flight can never be more than the cost of rebooking the same flight on a different day. Miraculously, it appears the initial ticket was always the cheapest fare.
Like most of us I am terrible at bothering to read the fine print. I’ve arrived at hotels in foreign cities on the wrong day of the wrong month, failing to notice that in some countries the month is written before the day; that a 30-day returns policy doesn’t apply to goods on sale; and that lipstick – yes, whoever looked at the use by date on their lipstick –can produce unwanted microbes, the ones that aren’t healthy for your body.
Recently I went on an Arctic cruise, a small luxurious boat with a spa, sauna and a choice of bars. Sadly, I neglected to notice in my exhausted overworked state the words ‘expedition’. Isn’t every cruise to the Arctic and Antarctic an expedition? It’s hardly sunbathing weather. While the cruise was spectacular, I hadn’t read the fine print: every morning the day’s itinerary was announced over a loudspeaker boomed right into your cabin. Participating in the day’s activities was of course optional but turning off such announcements was not. Wide awake, the thought of missing breakfast between 7 and 7.30 am (not in the fine print) and FOMO, particularly seeing a polar bear or walrus, propelled me out of bed. By 8am we’d all be assembled in the mud room, dressed like seals, rubber clad, ready to launch ourselves into a zodiac, heading out to explore ice shelves, climb glacial mountains, and look for wildlife, and the odd polar bear. Should have read the fine print. But the saying once bitten twice shy, for some reason, doesn’t apply to me.
By the time my son was eight years old he was fairly proficient at surfing the web. I was satisfied that the protection software I had installed on his computer ensured he didn’t wander into nasty territory, and in addition I could keep an eye on his browsing history so that he didn’t peek at sites that were off limits or spend hours playing online games. He was I discovered an avid browser of eBay, courtesy of an introduction from his two cousins, always in search of a bargain. It was early 2000s and eBay was still largely a site for second hand goods and handmade items, the sort of stuff you now find on Etsy.
I had a rule for eBay. No plastic toys, no purchases that required foreign currency conversions, and parental pre-approval was required before placing any bids. His key interest was in remote control helicopters and model aeroplanes, not to mention the odd large blimp. That expensive purchase landed in our neighbour’s tree, shredded like a paperbark. Undeterred his next ask was a little bit more adventurous. He had, he declared, found the perfect cubby house, one that looked like The Little House on the Prairie. This he was sure could fit all his toys, a place if necessary to keep the lawn mower (nice tactic, throwing in the practical) and met my environmental criteria for outdoor play equipment: no plastic, preferably only goods made of wood – treated wood – and made in Australia. It was he assured me handmade, came complete with windows, a small veranda, and a corrugated iron roof, painted in a muted olive green that would blend in beautifully with the hedges in our rather formal English garden.
Price tag – six hundred dollars. Six hundred dollars! No. was my answer. But my son can be very convincing, and you won’t be surprised to hear that on this matter he managed to persuade me that it was a sound investment because when he grew out of it, we could very easily sell it again on eBay. Also, he suggested, it could be both his birthday and his Christmas present combined. Nice!
I immediately read the purchase conditions. It was coming all the way from Western Australia, and it would take a few weeks to arrive. The wood was indeed treated; however it was not returnable or refundable. Okay, I thought, that is clear. It would arrive in time for his birthday.
Months later, after a few calls, when it had not arrived for his birthday, and a mountain of makegood birthday presents were delivered, I gave the company that made the cubby house another call. My son, I explained, was going through a growth spurt, and I was afraid that by the time it arrived, he would have outgrown it. Most apologetic they informed me that there was a small delay in sourcing the wood, but it would be on its way shortly. Six months went by. I called again. The wood had arrived, and they were so very sorry, but they would be sending it on the next truck. It would arrive in about ten days. ‘We’ve had to wait nearly twelve months,’ I whined, ‘so if it doesn’t arrive in the next few weeks, I would like a refund.’
Less than two weeks’ later, early one morning as I was taking the dog for a walk, a giant tabletop truck pulled up across my drive. ‘Where do you want this, luv?’ called the driver.
‘Me? Are you talking to me?’ Surely, I don’t look like someone you would call luv.
‘This is the address I have. You Kim?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Well then let me know where you’d like me to put this wood.’
‘Wood? I didn’t order any wood.’ I looked at the back of the truck. ‘Not mine.’ I said, shaking my head vehemently.
The driver turned off the engine, leapt out of the truck and began untying ropes. The dog was being irritatingly friendly which didn’t help my strategy to encourage the truck driver with his load of wood to leave.
‘You ordered a cubby house from WA?’ he said, rubbing my dog’s tummy.
‘Yes.’ I was trying to stand taller and look imperious, but he failed to notice.
‘Then this wood is for you.’
‘That’s not what we ordered. We ordered a cubby house.’
‘It’s self-assembly.’
‘Self-assembly? I don’t recall it saying that on eBay.’
‘I don’t know what you ordered luv. I’m just the delivery man.’
There were lots of pieces of what my father calls ‘4by2’, all about 6 meters long. It was a jigsaw puzzle I knew I could never complete.
‘Where are the instructions?’
‘As I said, I’m just the delivery guy. You’ll have to call the company.’
‘It’s 5 am in the morning in WA. I’m pretty sure they won’t answer.’
The driver just nodded. Desperate I called. A recorded message indicated office hours were between 9 am to 5 pm.
Having finished piling the wood on the drive, albeit very neatly, ‘I’m just the delivery guy’ jumped back in his cab and drove off.
I stomped inside to find my son.
‘Your cubby house has arrived,’ I yelled up the stairs, with my best Luna Park smile and the sweetest non-hysterical voice I could muster.
Like a puppy, he bounded down the stairs. ‘Where is it?’
‘On the drive,’ I said, suppressing the urge to scream.
‘I can’t see it,’ he said.
‘That’s because,’ I said, gritting me teeth, ‘it’s not built yet. That pile of wood you see stacked on the drive is your cubby house.’
‘Oh.’
9 am and I was on the phone. My son had wisely offered to take the dog for a walk and fled the house. When someone eventually picked up, I was barely coherent. ‘Where are the instructions,’ I bellowed.
‘Online,’ came the droll answer. ‘You will see that each piece of wood is labelled and all you need do is pick up some screws from the hardware.’
‘Hardware?’ I screamed.
‘Yes ma’am, do you have a local hardware shop?’
‘Hardware shop?’ Of course we do, but I was hardly going to tell him that I avoid shopping there because the man behind the counter thinks I am an idiot! There was a pause on the end of the phone.
‘Well you will need to pick up some screws from the hardware shop and cut the wood down to size, and you’re done.’
Done!
‘Yes, done.’
‘What will I cut the wood with?’
I could hear the person sigh on the end of the phone. ‘With a saw, of course ma’am. A tooth saw.’
‘A tooth saw?’
‘Yes, as I said each piece is marked. I’m sure a builder will have no problem in putting it together.’
‘A builder?’
‘Can you hear me,’ came the voice from the other end.
‘Of course I can hear you.’
‘Must be an echo then. I keep hearing my words repeated.’
I was now hysterical. So much so that the gentleman, even though he called me ma’am– I wasn’t about to call him sir – suggested I call back once I had examined the wood. Then he just hung up.
‘The nerve,’ I muttered. I logged on to eBay, furious at my son, and eager to download the instructions, which as it turned out was a simple diagram showing the direction of each piece of wood and where to put the nails in the roof, noting that this would require masonry nails. Of course. What other sorts of nails are there! And, just below the picture in the tiniest of print were the words ‘Self Assembly’.
As a single parent I did what any reasonable human being would do. I called my dad.
‘What are you doing next weekend?’ I gently inquired.
If the morning had been stressful what came next was ominous. ‘Well,’ he said ‘I’ll need a builder to help me. I can’t do it on my own. You’ll need two people to lift and hold the wood in place while the other nails it together.’ Any sane person by this time would have cut their losses. A builder? Where could I find a builder?
Fortunately, a colleague’s hubby was a builder and offered his service for a mere $100.00 per hour, cash. Dad thankfully was happy to accept a nice cup of tea and a few Monte Carlo biscuits.
Two days of hard going and $1800 dollars later my son had his cubby house. He was too tall to stand in it and I don’t every recall him playing in it. The door opening was too small to fit the mower and the dog was extremely wary of its enclosed space. When eventually it came time to realise my folly, and sell it on eBay, it was unfortunately too big to fit through the side gate, and was returned to its rightful state, a pile of wood. It would be impossible to assemble again, and I’m not sure anyone would want to put themselves through it. So back to the drive it went, ready to be picked up with the next household rubbish collection. Note to self. Remember to check the fine print.