Going, Going, Wrong...

I despise eBay. Truthfully, I hate them, loathe them, despair of them. A large online conglomerate making decisions about the little people who deign to buy and sell within their worldwide empire of stuff.

Okay, I’ll tell you why I hate them.

I recently sold a bag under the auspices of eBay; a satchel bag from Zara to be more specific, attaching a high resolution image from the store’s website and stating my ‘NO RETURNS’ policy. Tagging various additional elements that I perceived also accurately described the bag, I also added a blurb extolling its values. So eBay Bitch (a.k.a. “The Buyer”) sidles up – metaphorically speaking – to request further information on height, width and depth of the bag. I duly responded and once the sale ended the transaction was complete and I posted out the bag to the buyer – at added cost to myself to ensure it arrived in pristine condition but I only charged standard posting costs out of courtesy.

Less than a week later, she requested a refund based on the fact the bag was not as described. She claimed it to be green not tan as tagged in my description, though later relented to khaki after I came back to her and reminded her that I have a ‘no returns’ policy. She asked that I make an exception in this instance… I’m sorry, but have any of you been into a store with a clear ‘No Returns’ policy and been successful in asking them to make an exception just for you because you don’t quite like the product you’ve bought for whatever reason? Besides which, colour is objective, and I tagged ‘tan’ because I thought it an accurate shade – after all, khaki (and pale khaki at that) is a fine line between light brown and light green… and eBay don’t have the option of ‘khaki’ in their tagging anyway.

After numerous emails back and forth, aggressive from her, polite from me, she lodged a dispute with eBay demanding I pay her a full refund and when I reiterated my stance on the ‘No Returns’ policy she escalated the case enabling eBay themselves to make the final call. She lodged it Friday night at around 9.30pm, eBay had settled it by 9.30am on Saturday morning. And with no weekend number seemingly in operation all I could do was wait until this morning to challenge them via phone. I had been unable to file my own case against her for harassment and speaking with an eBay representative this morning my concerns that the seller is left with little or no protection were confirmed. They said their decision had been made based purely on the fact that the case had not been resolved; my guess is they didn’t even examine the evidence. So much for innocent until proven otherwise…

I explained the situation to the rep and stated clearly that on account of the aforementioned reasons I would not be issuing a refund regardless if eBay Bitch returned the bag to me. They refused to reconsider their decision while the case was open and said once the bag was returned – and only IF it was in poor condition – that I could then appeal the case. I think this is a travesty and on hearing a friend of mine incurring an even worse debacle involving an iPad that eventually called for the involvement of the police; I am hereby affecting a personal boycott of eBay in a bid to protect myself from further harassment, foul play and disgusting conduct by both eBay and the individual who bought my bag.

In an age where the majority of activity – financial, leisure and social – is carried out online, one would expect a greater degree of protection and democracy extended in this arena. Until that happens, eBay, the only bid I’ll be making is for more stringent online parameters.

Chapter One

She couldn’t understand it. One moment she’d been sitting patiently in the lobby with her portfolio, alongside all the other girls in their starched white shirts and Zara trouser suits, waiting for her name to be called. The next she appeared to be suspended in some kind of alternate reality. The room, empty and dark with high ceilings and low-hanging chandeliers looked across between the hotel ballroom in The Shining and the decorated hall of her graduation ball. The red leather couch which had moments ago been occupied by two other girls, fidgeting and nervous, was now bare. Lacey made to stand up, causing something to rustle underfoot. She looked down to find the pages of her carefully constructed portfolio fanned out in a chaotic pile on the marble floor.

She tried to peer into the blackness and called out. ‘Is anyone there?’ But all that she heard was her own voice echoing back at her from the cavernous corners of the eerie gloom.

The job she had been about to interview for was as a Junior Copywriter within one of London’s top advertising agencies. Highly competitive, ruthlessly creative and the ideal beginning to her dream career. The application process had been a nightmare. As it turned out, thinking outside the box was not as easy as the woman on the phone had made it sound. ‘Just remember, she’d said. ‘You’re idea has got to be better than all the other hundreds of applicants.’ Lacey was sure she had meant it to spur her on, but she’d hung up the phone more apprehensive than ever.

The brief she’d been set was to develop a television ad campaign for Blue Star, the up-and-coming denim brand of the tweenage generation. So she’d brainstormed and called upon the prepubescent thoughts of her youngest sister and her friends and worked it all out on a big A3 flip pad from Rymans. Convinced she’d landed on a genius idea she’d run it past her Dad’s advertising pal who’d been in the business for ten or so years, and who had encouraged her to apply in the first place. He had tweaked and critiqued in red pen and handed it back to her to polish up. She’d cried with premature defeat and had then wiped her eyes, berated her self-doubt and got on with the task at hand. Happy now with the final result, involving gymnasts wearing the jeans and performing a series of routines in them to reveal their elasticity and comfort before teaming them with the sparkly halter tops favoured by her sister’s generation to take them from day to night; Lacey had sent off her application to Wyatt and Sullivan with immense trepidation.

Hardly daring to check the post, her email or her answer machine messages, she had immersed herself in mundane chores around the house, helping her mother with washing, shopping, cleaning and cooking. Anything to distract herself from thinking about what the outcome would be. This was the first proper paying job she had applied for since leaving university. Of course she had managed to secure the required work experience, the first placement via her Dad’s advertising buddy, Phil, and afterwards, through sheer determination and initiative. She had proved herself a remarkable asset and all five placements had resulted in glowing reviews and reams of examples for her portfolio.

The call from Wyatt and Sullivan had come exactly eleven days later, not that she’d been counting, from the same woman who had filled her with doubt over her application. She’d been granted an interview and was to appear at the firm’s London office two days later. As soon as the line had disconnected, she’d emitted a scream of unadulterated joy. The nerves had soon set in however as it dawned on her that she’d only made it past round one.

Somewhere in the depths of blackness a ringing started up, muffled at first but gradually gaining momentum. Lacey shut her eyes.