How to cope with major communications problems
I’m offline at the moment and have been in that strangely isolating state for about 24 hours. I’m writing to you from this island of non-connection to the outside world and wondering whether I am being liberated from the usual mesh and m
ash of online technology, or just screwed by the
The truth is very much the latter. I’m being screwed, despite or perhaps because of a little over five hours on the phone, blessedly still connected, with fully pregnant waits between calls, to the mighty and over-systematised British Telecom. Hail thee provider of all my daily services, bringer of bread to the mouth of my babes; hail thee great one, to whom I am grateful for the continuance of the lifeblood of my business and thereunto for the untold small and large joys of my life deriving from the drops of credit and creditability that flow through the thy powerful portals of communication. Yea! Etc.
Here am I, very little I, unable to conduct normal business because so much of it depends on sending messages and finished pieces of work down the line to my beloved clients. Yet here, oddly am I also, an emerging moth perhaps discovering freedom and the light wing of aloneness (coyly discounting the fact that I can, of course, use my mobile to check emails if worst comes to worst).
On the one hand, you see, I have to count to ten every time I try to make another call, ineluctably dodging and weaving through the various menus offered by BT’s electronic gatekeepers of Business Customer Support; inevitably listening to the repeated recorded message telling me how valuable my call is to BT and that lines are very busy; quizzically listening to the message bobbing and re-bobbing in the silent flow that says “if you have a problem with broadband, why not try our online service at bt.com.sl
– that little sl ash word so
suggestive of the nearby bathroom cupboard; inscrutably awaiting that
surprising moment, often after more than 20 minutes on hold (provided I’ve not
simply been cut dead after the same amount of time and have had to start the
whole process again) when someone real answers.
Then I stutter into an explanation of why I, little I, long way off I, one of millions I, many ‘I’s doing the same thing, am trying to talk to you, real human you in your chair, with your earphones cuddling your furrowed and concerned brow. How e
asy then, with all the initial
frustration tampered down, just to say, “I wanted to wish you merry Christm as” rather than to start again on the whole long,
immensely boring telephonic saga of what h as
gone wrong, and to recount, again, the numbers and even first names of the
previous customer support operatives I have spoken to and what I said and what
they promised to do about it; and how many times just this morning, over a
three-hour period I have been told that a manager will get back to me. But he h asn’t, once.
And on the other hand, how tempting it is to leave it all behind and walk off into the dark but even-saddled night of isolation, two obliquely-parted fingers lifting to the breeze. No regrets, just a slow walk to Christm
all obligations shorn from the otherwise heavy burden of guilt and anxiety that
surrounds this se ason, courtesy of
rush and bustle coupled with the pre-empted hope of diving toward sweet evening
tide with its cosiness of friends and laughter. Ah yes, isn’t this more
tempting than the need to send this piece of work, this article, this report,
this letter, this urgent list of names, this addendum to the accounts, this
response to you and them and to the world, all slipping over themselves as priorities change and the door to connectivity
remains barred. Tempting…
But to stay out of the battle, not to play the cross-man, be the cross-man on the phone demanding rights and repairs, is only possible for a flicker of time and space; perhaps for just long enough to splurge this homage to you, world, my old friend and the things that belong to you, and all the good things that we are and could be were it not for the puddle-strewn, systemically auto-jammed, fat-glistened oesophagus of communications that we little men do peep myopically along in search of the pill we feel we have swallowed already, far too many times.