Ye gods! Today and yesterday have been extraordinarily fraught as I fought the system for the apparently unreachable luxury of a working phone and clarity of sound.
Honestly, the way the services reacted, anyone would have thought I were hassling them for the Holy Grail, the Sacred Right Testicle of St Darren or the Philosopher’s (Gall) Stone. I have been passed from proverbial pillar to off-pissing post by a succession of sanctimonious jobs-worths, all of whom seemed to believe that I was a moron of the first order and that their part in the grizzly process was to pass me on to some other righteous tosser whilst suggesting that the whole thing was my fault and my responsibility and I jolly well ought to man up and get down to work.
The whole thing was made infinitely worse by the fact that the demonic infestation of my telephone – which produced a truly eerie crackling and moaning and hissing! – meant that gurt chunks of my conversation were eaten by what sounded like marauding tribes of ten foot tall hornets – and, because the buttons on the accursed implement didn’t appear to work, I went round in dizzying circles, unable to access the option I wanted, for what felt like weeks.
So I went on line in my quest for sound – and was immediately immersed in the Lesser Hades that is the Chat Option. I have no idea which sadistic twat first came up with that unholy initiative, but, as a pot of acid upon the human soul, it is a Satanic winner! First off, it takes forever to type up your complaint – and the faceless imp you are attempting to get some sense out of keeps interrupting your thought process to ask what you want! Then, just as you are ready to actually commune with this Mephistophelian tease, you get cut off! I kid you not!
I was fuming by this time, as you can imagine – and the twenty minutes I had to wait on the bloody phone before something vaguely human deigned to answer had me gnawing at the carpet and seriously considering the wax doll and pin treatment
It got worse! Tethered to a chair by the too-short-cord Phone Inferno, and thus unable to scoot nippily up and down the stairs, I was overwhelmed by a barrage of footling requests for passwords and the like by some jumped up Poobah sound-alike who had taken the concept of haughty to an entirely new, and most sinister, level, and needed expelling from the human race pretty damn sharpish.
By the end of this Torment by Telephone Tart, I had had enough. More than enough. Steam was gushing from my ears and I was snorting, and pawing the ground, like a raging bull.
So, I took up my hammer, gathered all the components of the phone, router and its diverse intestines around me – and did the fucking job myself! It took HOURS! My neighbours would have been vouchsafed the choice sound of Ali snarling and swearing, hammering and kicking, hoovering and screaming and endlessly trying the phone to see if it had been exorcised by sheer fury.
The old phone – which cost me around two quid and was about as much use as a chocolate teapot – has been jettisoned. I was tempted to reverse over it, in a rit of fealous jage, but my car is in the garage having its inwards looked at at present and I don’t have a working skateboard. The new phone, which was considerably more expensive, is finally in place and working. The sound of it ringing was music to my bruised left ear*, I can tell you!
This evening, I shall slouch in my favourite armchair and listen to the delightful sound of Kathryn Tickell tickling the Northumbrian Bagpipes! I am going to share it with you!
*A trifling disagreement with the side of Pippa’s cage! Don’t ask!