Smythson Service

Given I claim that advice and I don’t get on – ironic I know - I slightly surprised myself when checking this week’s diary I saw and then followed a pre-printed missive to get a wriggle on for next years. 

I spoke about my love of Smythson’s panama diary last year, and having just read that article again, it’s not bad, few good jokes, on the whole it works.

So why talk about it again?

Well look at it, it’s what Smythson call ‘Emerald’, but I think is more Porsche’s 1970’s ‘Viper Green’. The perfect shade to set off the blue paper.

And as an entry in to world of ‘Luxury’ 18 pence per day isn’t bad. Plus, nothing ever feels as secure as when it’s written in ink, and at end of each year, I feel the clean slate of the next.

All well and good, but why again?

Well, service. Customer service and the quality of. 

London isn’t always great for customer service. Apart from the stores we rhapsodise on here, there are many more where, the commission is always right, not the customer.

Which means that now, I keep my expectations low.

So the other day, I had an experience, having walked down Bond Street and picked my colour, I took diary to the till, to pay and get it stamped. 

Yes, monograms are contentious, but they make me smile. 

Normally the wait is either an hour or two, or a day. 

This time 15 minutes. Normally that’s stretching your legs, making a phone call and grabbing a coffee territory.

Instead, John who looks after the press at back of store asked if I wanted to stay and watch. 

Watch I did, hypnotized by the gilt being applied, test stamps and placement measurements being taken and then the arm of press leaving its golden mark.

John carrying out the work with care, precision, confidence and pride.

All the while the world was set to rights and the meaning of life worked out. Then once stamped & polished, diary went into bag, beautifully wrapped up. The epitome of service with a smile. 

It & I went to Borough to meet a friend. As stood outside The Market Porter having a pint, the blue bag up on windowsill reminded me, that those moments of connection count. Moments where we interact face to face not phone to phone – hey I said ironic.