BT, yes I’ll name and shame the buggers. But in all honesty, it’s me, it has to be. When you ring someone and tell them you know what’s wrong, why, oh why do they treat you like a five year old?
“We will take you through the reboot sequence,” he said with a smooth melodic Dublin accent.
I’m not melting for that one, I’m not stupid, I have a Mark. Now technically I can handle myself with the domestic side of computers. Reboot means, turn off, turn on again. Connection means there is an ethereal link somewhere floating around my house in a totally different dimension that makes my computermebobs talk to the box that glows on the side, that communicates with the outside World. Reset means, he is going to have a cup of coffee and leave me with muzak that a seventies lift operator would cringe at.
IT all began, (typo, although it fits) It all began on Saturday. My phone did not want to open FB. I’m an avid Facebooker. It is my connection with those that live all over the country and friends in other parts of the Universe. Yes, I do believe that my friend Zog is living on Alpha Centore. Why would he lie to me? (Not really, he’s a secret agent for the FBI and can’t reveal his true identity, so that’s cool) I had been out, and you know when you sit having coffee and are offered free WIFI connection, you take it right. I sit in a café that is smack dead in the middle of the retail park and have the choice of several connections and on Saturday I went for the one at the Gym. Not for any particular reason, apart from the fact that it was the first one to pop up. Everything was fine and then it began.
DO YOU WANT TO BOOK A CLASS
GET 10% OFF WITH YOUR SPORTS MEMBERSHIP
JOIN THE BRIT FIT CHALLENGE
To be polite I just muttered “Fluff it,” under my breath and went to the next connection and carried on. The link was weaker and eventually I gave up and that’s why I’m still here on Monday filling in the last of my work sheets. Well I’m not actually, I’ve been side tracked. Talking to you guys always seems so much more fun than doing reports and things. I’m doing a course on line, but that’s another story.
At home I tried again, not a fig, my phone hated me and just clammed up. “Nah, ha” it said as I wanted to open my Fitbit app and see how well I’d done whilst shopping. Come on, who doesn’t count a walk around the shops as exercise at Fat Club? Nothing was having any fun. I tried my iPad thing, my laptop and my Mac, nothing wanted to say hello to the interweb.
“I know I’ll reboot,” I’m clever like that.
I’m going to let you into a well kept secret. It works, apparently. Where Mark works, the computers are ginormous beasts and guess what they do when they are not working properly? Yep you guessed it. They turn them off, and they turn them on. So, it had to work, didn’t it?
All devises suitably rebooted, I had a semblance of Interweb connection. Touchy, but working. I finished lesson four and decided to print out. Now I’m not one of these people that sits down and works diligently for 3 hours straight, I like to take my time, so the course lesson took me two days. It says on the email, “takes one and hour hours to complete”. But they don’t seem to take into account, coffee breaks, Rugby union games, the binge watching of Criminal Minds, playing Solitaire, talking to the other half, sleeping, showering, toilet breaks and bloody stupid routers that like to go out for a walk every now and again.
It all came to ahead last night. The stupid thing about it is that the link in my brain between the interweb problems and the moaning I did at Mark hasn’t registered until now. So here it is, an official apology to my husband. I hate doing this. Mark, darling I’m sorry for telling you off like a five year old. After my telephone conversation this morning with the nice man from BT, I know exactly how you must have felt. However, you were still wrong.
You see, men just can’t help themselves when they come across a damsel in destress. They have to interfere. No, I couldn’t get the printer to work, (it’s WIFI, you can see where this is going, can’t you) No I couldn’t get it to communicate with the Mac. No, I couldn’t print out the page I wanted to study. No, I wasn’t a happy bunny. No, I didn’t need Mark coming up and telling me to turn it off and turn it back on again. You think I haven’t tried that. In fact, what is it with IT bods, do they think we are stupid enough not to have tried that?
Not satisfied that I’d sent him away with a flea in his ear, he then decided to go downstairs and do something funky with his computer. Why? Answer me that, just why? Whilst I was manually connecting the computer with the lead to the Mac, you know the sensible woman’s solution, if that plug don’t work, try the other one, don’t take the appliance to pieces, he decided to send a print through the ethereal connection to the printer. Meanwhile I was happily printing away.
I hadn’t asked him and he hadn’t told me what he was doing and the poor printer got ever so confused as the connection to the nether world of interwebs got hold of his job and mine and the printer went, “Not doing this, I want A4 paper”, I print in A5 for the folder I have.
I stayed calmed, walked down stairs, sat on the arm of the chair and ask Mark to look at me and listen to what I had to say. Oh boy was I patronising, and deep down inside, I am now laughing my bloody head off as I remember this six foot four inch man sitting looking up at me with those big blue eyes as though I had just told him he wasn’t getting any sweets for the next month. I’m sorry what can I say, I was sore, I wish he had told me what he had planned to do. But you know what men are like, can’t organise their own dentist appointments but always there to save the day. On this occasion, as many others, he just got me in a tizwaz, and yes, I have to change his dentist appointment for him. Must remember to do that next.
This morning I had had enough as I once again tried to post a poem and the interweb was having none of it. Simple solution, call BT and get it fixed. Marks solution, do weird and wonderful things with apps and graphs and wiggly lines to see what was happening. Apparently, the connection between the router and the equipment was dropping out. Don’t ask me, I’m only a woman, (it’s only a saying, feminists need not comment)
So I rang BT armed with the information from the report I had run on my PC and the wiggly lined graph I had been shown and was expected to memorise.
“Good morning, my name is Arron I’m in Dublin, how can I help you?”
“My router is dropping in and out. I don’t mean that it is going out to lunch and coming in late.” I tried humour. It didn’t work.
“Before you start, yes on my Mac, PC, the router, phone, iPad, my husband’s bits…”
“I see madam.”
Don’t’ you just hate it when they say that.
“I’ll have to run some tests.”
I thought better than to tell him that I had seen a graph that clearly showed the fault. But when he came back with, “Now then, are you sure you have the WIFI turned on and there is a blue light on the front.” I sort of lost it. The technical speak that Mark so often spouted at me leapt from the dusty dark corner of my mind and I let him have it. I wanted him to refresh the router from his end to clean it up and get rid of the rubbish it can accumulate when used on the very important technical sites my brilliant husband that works for the government, don’t you know, uses it for. (OK I lied a tad, about the government bit)
Left on hold to calm down, Arron put the muzak back on giving me time to think. Marks sorry face came back into play. Yep I had treated him the same way last night.
Arron came back to me, I had to hang up the BT line, and he called me on my mobile. He reset everything and I’m now up and running in the ethereal World of secret connections around the globe.
I’m not a stupid woman, I know where the buttons are. And I know how to press them, don’t I Mark?