I can’t of course be sure you’re seeing this - if you’re in the real world that is. Or even that I’ve written it. Because that’s the thing about Wonderland - doing something doesn't mean it’s happened, just as not doing it is no guarantee it hasn’t. Wonderland is all about faith; the deaf, dumb and blind variety. Believing what you’re told to be true even if it blatantly isn’t. And then Wondering how the hell things got this bad, and when it will all be over.
And that’s where I am most of the time these days. I say ‘time', but that’s one of the things that doesn’t apply here. Along with logic, and giving people credit for even a smidgeon of intelligence. You’ve probably been here yourself without realising it. For example, you’re on a station platform, your train is due at 8:08 and is ‘on time’. With a single fluid motion you turn to the station clock and see it’s 8:08, then swivel back to the platform. No train. Where it is? Nobody knows. And it doesn’t matter. The real question is where are you? And the answer is: Wonderland.
We currently have no O2 signal where we live. Which is a big problem because we all have 02 mobiles and no landline, which is also broken. Every day I endure a live chat with 02’s help desk. We go through the same ritual: the proof of identity (which is irrelevant), account details (also irrelevant), request to speak to the account holder (irrelevant), before we get to the meat of the matter and I supply the postcode. That's when I get the good news. They've consulted with the O2 oracle and there is no problem with the coverage where I live.
Now I know for a fact there is. Because neither us nor our neighbours have been able to get a signal for several days. But notice I use the word ‘fact’ - which is another of those things that don’t apply here. In Wonderland you just need to stop getting hung up on all these outdated notions and relax a bit. If O2 says it’s working, then what the hell, let it be working. Just pull on your dungarees, pick up your ukulele, and chill.
A few months ago a glass wall in the office exploded for no apparent reason. When the man came to replace it I asked him why such a thing should happen. To which he replied: "it doesn't". Not in Wonderland.
Sometimes I try and return to the real world. I find pinching myself doesn’t do it anymore, so have taken to punching myself repeatedly in the eye. Especially when they ask me if I’ve tried turning my phone off and on again. Sometimes I prize the keys off my keyboard one by one and melt them very slowly over a burning copy of my O2 contract.
I'm so familiar with the narrative structure of the O2 live chat that I can now detect the exact moment when the advisor decides I’m a danger to myself and those around me, and the most humane thing is to pack me off to Wonderland. A little bit like stopping a stampeding rhino with a tranquilliser dart.
"You can smile again," he tells me with a bazaar change of tone. "Because the problem has been fixed in the last few moments, and when you get home everything will be perfectly okay."
"Really?"
"Yes really. Rejoice and be glad, because everything is alright. Be happy again."
This is something I cannot, of course, prove to be incorrect. But every ounce of instinct and intuition I’ve managed to retain from the real world tells me it’s a lie. Because everything I’ve learnt about O2 over the years - and every other telephone company for that matter - tells me there are no happy endings. But in Wonderland hope abounds. It has to, because nothing ever happens. You’re just told it will, and that’s enough. I get home to find my wife sobbing hopelessly into an impotent iPhone.
We decide to go to an O2 shop on the basis that the people who lie to us will be in the same physical space, and within striking distance. We’re met by Chris, a fresh-faced youth who quickly calls for reinforcements when he clocks the severity of our countenance. Sensing that he will be of no use to us, my wife decks him with a single blow to the throat. Which causes the reinforcements, which have arrived in the form of Cameron, to mobilise the ‘dealing with awkward customers’ module of his training which, luckily for him, involves actually acknowledging there’s a problem and looking vaguely concerned about it. So, for the moment, we let him live. But it turns out there’s nothing he can do, being only a small clueless man behind a desk in a shopping centre, instead of a large clued-up man up a telegraph pole outside our house. So he closes the situation down by assuring us that even if there was a problem before, there isn’t now, and when we get home we’ll wake up and find it was all a dream. So, for his own good, we put him to sleep, permanently, and leave.
After five years of near constant delays crossing the Forth Estuary the replacement Queensferry Crossing is complete. The signs above the motorway proclaim: Queensferry Crossing opens tomorrow. Expect delays. And the delays are so bad it proves impossible to drive to work, so I take the train.
Seized by a sudden and overwhelming urge to communicate with the outside world we decide to try and get the landline fixed. Miraculously the BT engineer mends it within two days. And, unlike one of those imaginary O2 repairs, he mends it in a way that means it actually works. We take it in turns to punch in random numbers and have a chat with whoever answers, just for the thrill of it. But our ecstasy is short-lived, because then we get a message from BT that the Wi-fi might need two or three days to come back to full speed. So now we have a phone, but no wi-fi. After four days it shows no sign of improvement and the kids have degenerated into rabid ether-fiends, frothing at the mouth and generally tearing the place apart in search of bandwidth. When they take my wife hostage in the shed, and threaten to remove a finger for every hour they remain offline, I decide it’s time to call BT.
I explain to Abdul that we had a problem with the line, got it fixed, and now have no wi-fi. I’m keen to stress the causative relationship between the last two of those events. But to no avail; it seems this eventuality is not available to Abdul. Yes, he explains, it’s perfectly possible that a fault on the line has had an inverse impact on our wi-fi. Slowly I explain again. The wi-fi was fine while there was a fault on the line. It’s only stopped working since the fault was fixed. There’s a pause as it occurs to Abdul he’s dealing with an escapee from the real world. Time to put me back where I belong.
"Yes sir," he says. "As I just explained, there is every possibility that your wi-fi would have been affected by the fault on your line."
I sense I’m being carefully manoeuvred into an airlock. Surely he’s not going to....
"Now that’s fixed, your wi-fi will work. You can smile again."
"No," I scream. "Can’t you understand what I’m telling you…"
But in space no one can hear you rant. Now in the foetal position I revolve slowly to an imagined Richard Strauss sound track. Suddenly the idea of an eternity of non-existence doesn’t seem so bad, and I begin to shut down vital bodily functions in preparation. I’m rescued by my wife who, having escaped from the shed, docks close by and administers small sips of hot sweet tea.
"It’s okay," she says, stroking my head. "They’re coming. They’re coming to our house."
Somehow she’s managed to book a visit from a BT engineer and he’s coming on Friday. Into our world. We don’t know when, between eight and one is as close as they can get, but hey, time’s irrelevant here anyway. What matters is he’s coming. I book the morning off.
At 8 am I call to check he’s still coming. Mujahid tells me he’s not. Because yesterday they did tests and decided he didn’t need to. And were going to let me know, but now won’t bother. So, I don’t need to worry, because the fault will be corrected from the exchange. And I can go to work, smiling. For a few minutes I believe him, and go to work, smiling. But it soon wares off, and I stop in a lay-by and call again. This time it’s Kevin, who makes a point of telling me he's in Blackburn. And that the engineer is still coming. In fact he might already be there. For some reason, the fact he’s Kevin, and in Blackburn, convinces me he knows what’s happening, and I turn the car quickly. That’s when I see the BT Openreach van pass by, travelling away from my house.
So he’s been and I missed him, but I’m not letting him get away. I give chase and tell Kevin what’s happening. Does he think he’ll stop for me if I flash my lights? Probably not, says Kevin. Would I? Probably not. I throw the phone aside. Enough of Kevin. I’ve got a real Iife engineer in my sights now, and I’m not letting him go. He’s not responding to my flashing, but he’ll need to stop at the junction at Muckhart. That’s when I’ll make my move. He does, and I jump out and run towards the cab. He pulls away, almost as if afraid. Damn him. I’m running hard to catch him as he accelerates, but he’s too fast. Looks like another thing you can’t do in Wonderland is successfully flag down errant BT Engineers. But then - wonderfully - he pulls over and winds down the window. Has he been to my house? No, he’s off to Alloa.
So there’s still a chance. I drive home and get a call from my wife who’s just spoken to Melinda in Milton Keynes who says he’s coming too! So I sit at the kitchen table and wait. I can’t apply myself to my work; nothing productive ever gets done in Wonderland. Instead I slide into a deep despondency. I mean, these people never turn up when they’re coming. What chance is there of them turning up when they’re not. Mujahid says they’re not anyway. And now I’m believing him more than Kevin and Melinda. Because with BT and O2 all you can do is reach for your ukulele in the knowledge that trust is an illusion, and hope is futile.
Which is why I fail to believe my eyes when, shortly after 10am wonder-time, a BT van pulls up outside the house. The puss-filled bag of perversity that surrounds me ruptures and I spill like a newborn onto the floor of a bright new reality. I feel a strange and alien sensation welling up within me. I think it may be hope. Without wasting a moment I rush outside to scatter rose petals before the feet of the promised one as he cometh forth from his van. For I will not holdeth him accountable for the sins of his call centre colleagues. He shall be exalted above all, and lauded for the promise of redemption he brings. But if he be not the chosen one, if he cannot atonement make for those who wish to deny us our internet, then to the shed I shall confine him, and his fingers taketh away.
It all starts well. He’s called Craig and has the air of someone I can manipulate and, if required, threaten. In his hand there is a device for detecting problems, and in his van a whole load of stuff for fixing them. We begin in the loft where it turns out a strong and ample signal comes in from the telegraph pole. Craig tells me it’s simply a matter of following the wire down to the next junction, attaching a certified BT internet socket, plugging in, and off we go. But there’s something bothering me. A niggle. A niggly niggle that reminds me a bit of trying to replace a 40mph bridge with another 40mph bridge with more traffic on it. You see, I know our wi-fi doesn’t work. So in order for it to start working, something has to get fixed. And as far as I can see, he hasn’t fixed anything. But he has taken his readings, and his readings tell him there’s nothing wrong. So on he goes, changing the socket, plugging in the router and bingo, job done. That, he says, should be it. And indeed it would be, if fixing a problem meant denying its existence and doing something totally irrelevant instead.
You see, while all this has been going on I’ve craftily installed a wi-fi speed testing app on my phone, and am now able to tell him that the actual speed is roughly a tenth of what he says it is, which is roughly not a speed at all, and exactly how it was before. If that’s the case, he says, he’d better go to the van and call the man who runs the internet and ask him to turn up the bit that comes into our house. And that’s exactly what he does. Within seconds my app goes haywire and our connectivity is restored to its former glory.
On his way out I ask him for the number of the man who controls the internet. I don’t know where he is, but I reckon there’s a good chance he sits next to the man who controls O2. He can’t give it to me unfortunately. Of course he can’t. After all, we don’t want a world where a problem like this can be fixed in the blink of an eye, without weeks of brain-busting frustration, and the recurring desire to maim oneself and others.
But he might change his mind. Before he goes would he mind taking a look at a problem that’s about to start happening in the shed? And could I borrow his wire cutters? I lead the way into the garden, where I hear the distant strains of a Ukulele playing a tune I recall from long ago - Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am...
@jesoverthinksit
No comments:
Post a Comment