A man of letters ...

January 31, 2020

I have reached the point where certain aspects of life, which once were seen as distant or unimportant, are now dominant parts of my daily routine.

Three main personal priorities are health, caring for elderly relatives and, of course, money. When it comes to the last element, being enveloped in the threadbare blanket of unemployment sharpens the mind in everything from culinary creativity with what would have been brock for the pigs (or brown bin nowadays), to switching off lights, turning down the heating and ensuring the pension is secure.

My working life has seen three pots created for my final years before death; even added together these will not significantly ease the worry of routine expenses. I could happily enter rant mode here, pointing out the radical differences between a pension organised by a paternalistic small company and that arranged by a national company. The ‘lucrative’ latter generating an impressive £100 per annum (!) after nearly 10 years of contributions.

However, the ultimate blame for that lies with me and not paying enough attention when I was receiving a paycheck. So, I’ll let that pass as I’d really like to focus on a bizarre exchange I had this morning with one provider. You’ll know the one. Its image is based on an apparently recently bereaved young woman, dressed in black, looking self assured but slightly sorrowful as she traipses across the Scottish landscape, possibly in the Outlander era.

My interaction with her indoor, desk-bound, modern-day representatives was prompted by two letters that had dropped through my door, sent on the same day by the same person, thanking me for notifying the company of my change of address.

 I hadn’t, and I haven’t changed my abode.

After manoeuvring through the keypad options, the conversation went something like this:

Hello, I’d like to speak to someone regarding two letters I have received thanking me for notifying you of my change of address, which I didn’t do.

Thank you. Your name please?

Morkis. M-O-R-K-I-S.

Thank you. Can I have your policy number?

Sorry, I don’t have that to hand. You provided me with a number to call if I had any questions about your letters.

Well, can I have your National Insurance number instead?

Sorry, I don’t have that to hand either. I’m really, as requested, just responding to your letters to me. I’ll have to call you back.

I could check if you give me your date of birth.

Twenty nine, nine, 56.

Thank you Mr Morkis. Now what seems to be the issue?

Somebody notified you that I’d changed address, and I haven’t.

Let me check. I'll just call you up on the system. Ah yes, I know what’s happened.

What?

If someone calls up your file and notices an error in your address, like a repeated line or misspelling, then a letter is sent out.

You mean two letters.

Yes, unfortunately, that does happen.

But they are different letters, though signed by the same person.

Yes, that does happen.

Sent on the same day?

Yes.

One letter thanks me for telling you about my change of address. The other is exactly the same in thanking me, but then goes on to tell me I won’t receive any further correspondence to the address it was sent to.

Yes. That’s right. That’s what happens.

Really? You send a letter to an address someone tells you isn’t his or her address anymore, even though I didn't?

Yes.

Why? Why would you do that?

It's just what sometimes happens.

So you will still send correspondence to this address?​

Yes.

Even though you said you won’t?

Yes.

So this is nothing to be concerned about?

No.

Are you sure?

Yes, it’s just something the system does. I can only apologise Mr Morkis.

So the system sends letters to people who are no longer at the address it is sending the letter to? 

That right.

And also to people who have no change in their address at all, telling them they won't be sent any further correspondence to that address because it has changed, even if it hasn't?

Yes. That’s correct. It happens with the system.

Really?

Yes.

Really?

Yes, Mr Morkis.

Hmmm. Okay, thank you.

(End of conversation).

Bizarre, isn't it? So, assuming these letters were franked at second class rate, that’s £1.16. Or to put it another way, half a week of my pension … or, as I now think of it, two loaves of Sunblest.