I woke up this morning to the sight of my Internet router displaying all four of the lights it should be showing. This was excellent news after one of the little bastards went out at about eight-thirty last night leaving me Internet-less.
Now, for some people this may not have been a major issue, I mean, many people in the world have far bigger things to contend with in their daily lives. Bombs, poisoned water, viruses, the list of suffering is seemingly endless. For me though, the lack of Internet capability was about as bad as my life could get. It’s akin to cutting off my right arm and my penis and I was onto the Sky help-desk like a shot. Sadly, at their end, Sky were firing blanks and it took SIX of the most frustrating minutes of my year before someone called, Ewan, heard my expletive filled ranting at the robot voice telling me that if my broadband had failed I should go to Sky help online and follow the instructions, and interrupted to ask for my username and password.
Although I’m a computer repair man myself, and could probably have taught Ewan a thing or two, I sat back and allowed myself to be led with excruciating languidness, through his level one flow chart to see if he could ascertain the problem. Twenty minutes later, I found myself suggesting things to him, (no, no and no, perverts,) and he was jotting down a list of a few more things he could have got me to try. Sadly, in my case, I had already been through my own list before contacting him.
Ewan thanked me for my input and assured me that he was about to ‘escalate,’ my problem to his senior colleagues and assured me that one of these descendants of Einstein, would be in touch within the next seventy-two hours.
I took this rather badly as you can probably guess. Seventy-two hours without Internet access! That’s three sodding days! I coughed and spluttered on my mouthful of cold coffee, but before I could put a coherent sentence together, Ewan had ended the call.
You can imagine how frustrating this was. I rushed into the lounge to complain to the missus but she had heard me getting increasingly irritated on the phone and decided that an early night was called for. I shouted up the stairs to her but she was obviously too tired to reply to my whinging because there was no sympathetic, tut tuts, no, oh dears, not even a ‘get a sodding life.’
I told myself that this wasn’t the end of the world and there were other things I could be doing with the Facebook free time I was about to enjoy. I picked up my writer’s magazine and put it down again, I fired up the word processor but that was only on screen for less than five seconds before the I clicked the exit button. I switched on the TV and flicked through twenty channels of garbage before I gave up, cursed the world and its dog and went up to bed at the ridiculously early time of 9.15 pm.
I know, I thought. I’ll check out my Kindle, there’s about fifty, waiting to-be-read books on there, so that ought to keep me occupied until the Sandman sprinkles dust in my eyes. Sadly, the Sandman had got to the Kindle before me, it was flat out and the only books on the shelves in our bedroom were the unwelcoming rows of the wife’s hysterical romances. I could have gone into the other bedroom and picked a book from one of the bookcases that Homebase have been randomly delivering all year, but I was comfy by now and it all seemed too much of an effort. I must have been ready for a kip anyway because I didn’t even get to have the angsty, ‘I’ll get my own back on you, Sky bloody broadband,’ tossing and turning session that I was so looking forward to.
As I said earlier, I got up this morning to the sight of four bright lights on my router and the news that the Internet, was fully functional again. The missus knew all about it from 6.00 am but didn’t bother to wake me up to let me know. She bloody well woke me up to let me know when Princess Diana died and when we invaded Iraq. Some things just aren’t important enough, I suppose.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the fact that pre-Internet disaster, I was about to check up on the sales of my new book, Tracy’s Celebrity Hot Mail, published by |Crooked Cat Publishing. It had been doing really well in the Amazon satire charts since the launch on Tuesday and I was keen to see if you lot were still buying it in your droves.
I did check this morning and it seems that ‘droves,’ was the wrong word but it’s still selling steadily, so, if you fancy a good laugh at Tracy’s observations, give it a try, It’s only 99p on Kindle for a limited time. It only takes a few seconds to download. Providing your Internet is working of course.