Letter of complaint

XX XXXXXXX XXXX
XXXXXXXX
XXX XXX

26 March 2007

Virgin Atlantic Customer Relations
PO Box 747
Dunstable
LU6 9AH

File Reference: XXXXXXXXXX

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am writing to inform you of a matter that has caused me to suffer some vexation, a certain degree of irritation, and a not insignificant measure of discombobulation. This weekend just past, I underwent a terrible ordeal, and, like the mariner that stoppeth one of three, I feel I must unburden my soul to you. On Saturday evening I flew American Airlines from MIA to JFK to connect with the Virgin Atlantic flight VS 26 to LHR, which took off at 0730 on Sunday 25 March. When I got to Heathrow, your staff informed me that my bag had been lost in New York.

Now, at this point I had already been travelling for around twenty-four hours, and I had thought the worst was over. As you will appreciate, I felt exactly like Xenophon, who, after the defeat of Artaxerxes at the battle of Cunaxa, found himself and his ten thousand troops abandoned in the enemy territory of central Persia, and was forced to march overland the hundreds of miles back to the Black Sea.

Why? Well, the bag had in it my Heathrow Express return ticket, which had set me back no less than 29 quid. Now, the Heathrow Express, as you may know, is the most expensive train journey in the world. If you didn’t know that, perhaps you could make a note of it and pass it on to Richard Branson at the next business meeting. The bag also contained my keys, and my National Railcard.

Not wanting to shell out a second time for the most expensive train journey in the world, I took the tube to King’s Cross. Naturally, the train only managed to get me as far as Northfields, at which point, owing to some unexplained fault, I was abruptly vomited out onto the platform, where I was forced to wait in the bitter cold, coatless (where was my coat? In NYC!), a full twenty-five minutes for the next one. Don’t worry, I’m not about to blame you for the parlous state of TfL. Nor would I blame you for the fact that, once I got to King’s Cross, I had to wait another hour for a train to take me to Cambridge, which train only limped as far as Stevenage, where I had to transfer to a bus, which bus laboured up the A505 to Royston, at which station I boarded another train to Cambridge, my destination; no, I would not blame you for this, were it not for the fact that I had to pay the full fare of eighteen-odd quid for my ticket. Why? Because my railcard was in my bag and my bag was in New York City. That really sticks in my craw.

Happily, the bag was finally returned to me today. But even Odysseus, when he arrived back at Ithaca after ten years’ peregrinations, had still to defeat the suitors; so I too met with further misfortune: the key to my office had been in that bag, and it had arrived too late in the day for me to go in. I had been compelled to take the day off work. O blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks! As I am by nature – like Sir Richard himself – an industrious and conscientious worker, this enforced indolence pained me greatly.

In conclusion, please send me some cash or vouchers or something in compensation for my emotional distress and pecuniary privation, and we’ll say no more about it.


Yours faithfully,

XXXX X XXXXX

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