Wednesday, July 07, 2004

Our reputation…we can rebuild it…

…we have the technology (once again).

Yep, I have broadband once more which means I’ll be entertaining you with poignant tales of life in London with M and C and an entire entourage of cameos from people that have no idea how famous I can make them from the merest mention of their antics on this here interweb.

The post below (Shrugville) was written in the depths of the night on Tuesday and not posted because the trudge to the internet café didn’t seem worth it, so do read it with the knowledge that at the time of writing it wasn’t certain that I would have an internet connection any time before hitting menopause. I think you’ll understand the anger and whininess so much better.

I am posting this from the luxury of my new office, which is just fantastic. I feel like a warrior trudging back from the battlefield with a bloodied sword in one hand and the severed head of the enemy in the other. I have won, I have defeated ntl’s evident plot to keep me off the net and start me on the long and tortuous road to mental illness.

There was one last hurdle to deal with today, though. I had to relive my recent nightmares and brave a good half hour of remixed classical hold music interspersed with ‘We really do love you, but you’ll have to wait to speak to one of our trained seals.’ messages. The conversation and the bouncing around from department to department wasn’t anything terribly different from the average mind numbing fare. It was when I found myself earnestly engaging in another round of Existentialist Wheel of Fortune where I had to prove that I did, indeed, exist in order to win the toaster and the broadband connection that I felt things had become surreal again.

In England, post codes are quite specific – they actually narrow you down to a single street. There are databases that companies buy with this information. I think ntl must have the Wacky Humor Fun-o-Matic Not Quite Right version.

‘What’s your postcode?’

I give him my postcode. Carefully, carefully – in that radio jargon code full of Papas and Lemurs and Tango Zulus.

‘That’s Smith road?’

‘Err, no – it’s Jones road’

‘It says here that that postcode is Smith road.’

‘Well, it’s not Smith. It’s Jones.’

‘I don’t have a record of an account at Jones road.’

‘Erm… there was a technician here not a minute ago, I’m sure I have an account.’


*sigh* ‘Alright’ (At this point, it’s evident that I’m one of those pesky nuisance callers that get their kicks from staying on hold for hours to play postcode guessing games with the droids. He thinks he is humoring me.) ‘What’s your telephone number, then?’

I give him the number.

‘Ahhh…here it is.’

…so what, it was hiding? I ask what the address is on the account. It’s correct. The postcode is correct. The reason for this conversation remains a mystery, as do so many things here.

Anyhow – point is I’m back and so very happy for it. Now on to two weeks worth of emails needing to be cleared.

M

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