I’m writing this to give me something to do because I have no internet at the moment. More on that later.
Today has been troublesome. Upon waking I received another pestering text message from the GP surgery which annoyed me as they always do. This will have to be dealt with since I’ve had quite enough of dealing with medical matters to last me a lifetime. At about the same time a power cut began, the result of which was no breakfast, no early cup of tea, no later morning coffee, much worrying about how long the freezer contents will remain frozen, and no internet. (And therefore no news, no sports news, no emails to check, and no updates on YouTube.) I was due to get the transport to Ashbourne to do my weekly grocery shop, and the power returned just as I was leaving. But at least I got to see the Lady B for the first time in several months, or it would be more accurate to say that I got to see the Lady B’s car and a waving hand which it seemed natural to presume was attached to the Lady B.
The bus turned up a little late and so it was a rush to get everything done – which wasn’t much – in the town. I managed it and was ready for the return trip with about ten minutes to spare. I saw a person – hard to tell whether male or female – coming out of Sainsbury’s with a wheeled walking frame. I would say he or she was around fifty and somewhat disabled, as evidenced by the time it took to walk the forty feet or so from the doors to the benches opposite. He or she sat on the bench and began to eat an apple. Slowly. Deliberately. With head bowed. I found it a poignant sight, and wondered how a life should be lived when there’s little to do except get through it. The young woman of around nineteen or twenty walking briskly past with a child in a buggy painted a different picture.
And then the bus turned up with an incoming woman passenger onboard. This could be a very long story, so I’ll keep it brief. She didn’t seem to know what she was doing or what she wanted, whether through drink (as the driver maintained), drugs, medications, or some pathological mental disturbance, I wouldn’t know. There was no incident as such, but her confusion and indecision – and the need to take her home en route to taking me – meant that a fifteen minute exercise took fifty. And I’d still had nothing to eat or drink except half a glass of water. (And yes, I know I should be grateful for even that blessing.)
The best of today’s misfortunes, however, was yet to come. At 6.15 in the evening my internet dropped out. It does so frequently since I switched to British Telecom, so I reset the router. That usually works, but not this time. I tried it again with no result. It dawned on me that I was without internet, and naturally felt the need to talk to somebody in BT about the problem. I can’t do that now because, as previously reported, BT’s customer service line restricts access to customer service advisors exclusively to customers in proud possession of a smart phone. I am not such a case, being one of those small minded mortals who still think it possible to negotiate life armed only with a dumb phone. And so I used the automated fault reporting line. I received an automated reply advising me that there was an issue in my local area and they were working ‘really hard’ (note the word really) to rectify the situation, since they ‘know how important it is to stay connected.’ They expected to have me ‘back up and running’ by 1700 hrs on 4th September. That’s nine days away. And that’s BT.
The internet is very important to me, you know. I would rather it weren’t, but it is. I can read a book, of course, but I find myself becoming a little restive after about twenty minutes and my eyes begin to get sore. TV and radio offer nothing of interest to me. I don’t do night time things like cinemas, theatres, restaurants, or pubs. I live alone and my only friend is my ex, Mel, and so I rarely get to talk to anybody. Chores like housework and gardening keep me busy at times, mostly during the day, but I can take only so much of those. The internet provides my music, my entertainment, multifarious subjects on which to muse, and occasionally information. My only – dare I say it – ‘creative’ pastime is my blog which depends entirely on the internet. Without it I’m all but lost.
So how do I change this sorry situation short of engaging some intelligent, personable, slightly neurodivergent young woman to keep me company and feed my insatiable curiosity regarding the female of the species? I can be quite sure there would be no takers, and so I must bear my lot with fortitude until the god of technology and the corporate world chooses to release me.
Thursday 27th August,
This morning we had a thunderstorm in the Shire, accompanied by torrential rain. When the storm passed the rain became steady and quite heavy, and remained so for several hours. I went out for my usual walk anyway, duly protected by my trusty Mountain Warehouse raincoat with the hood up, and was treated to two interesting sights.
Two girls of around late teens were walking down The Hollow, the sunken lane which has received many a mention on this blog. One was wearing a raincoat with the hood up; the other was wearing what looked like a flimsy bodice-style garment, leaving her head, neck, shoulders, arms, and the top of her chest bare for all the world to see and all the rain to rain on. I’ve never seen a girl dressed quite so openly in the Shire even in dry weather, let alone heavy rain. I tried to think of something funny to say, but failed miserably and the moment was lost.
The second interesting sight came at the top of the lane on the area of grass which the locals call the village green. For as long as I’ve lived here it’s been home to the millennium oak tree which is growing rather grandly, the old, traditionally red public phone box which has probably been there for about a century but has latterly been de-commissioned and given over to a book exchange facility, the village mailbox, and the telecommunications cabinet which plays some pivotal role in directing the phone and internet signals from the lines to individual properties. The millennium oak is the only occupant still standing. The phone box and mailbox are missing altogether, and the cabinet is dented, scored, and leaning at a jaunty angle. And the road sign which says Bag Lane is flattened. Clearly something big and hard has crashed into everything, and credence must be given to this being why our internet is currently out of action and likely to stay that way for an unconscionable length of time. I’m not happy. And thunder is rolling around the heavens again as I write.
Finally, I made my difficult phone call to the doctor’s surgery today to tell them that I was unwilling to play their games, no matter how noble they might seem to most right-thinking people. (I’m not most people, you see.) I must have seemed a bit heavy at times to the poor receptionist, and so I eventually apologised to her since none of it was her fault. The fact that she was unruffled by my heaviness and equally unmoved by my apology impressed me.
Friday 28th August
The Great Internet Famine continues into a third day. Another six days to go if BT’s prognosis proves accurate (which is unlikely, but we’ll see.)
I took a walk down to the site of the disaster in Bag Lane to see how the work was proceeding and maybe get a more realistic prognosis from the people doing the job. The road was marked as closed, but when I arrived at the workface there was no closure. There were also no workers. Maybe it was because it was raining, and maybe telecoms engineers don’t work in the rain. They are not, after all, farmers or deep sea fishermen.
I had a bill payment to post, but the mailbox which used to be next to the telecoms cabinet is no longer anywhere in sight. No doubt it is probably awaiting its final trip to a scrap metal pile at some foundry by now. Accordingly, I had to make a two mile round trip on foot to the next nearest mailbox on the other side of the Shire. It rained the whole way back.
(If this missive is going to make its first night appearance when the internet finally raises its curtain again, I doubt many people will read it to the end. But continue it must if I am to remain as sane as I usually am.)
The empty night time hours are growing longer now that the year’s end is beginning to whisper its impending presence, and I’m beginning to feel the need of a companion while the internet is sleeping. I’m also being reminded again of a parallel with the character of Dr Haynes from MR James’s story The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral. He, too, feels the need of a companion as the night time hours lengthen. His sister has decamped to the south of England where the air is kinder to her delicate condition, and the friend who came to stay for a short while has gone home. That’s when Dr Haynes begins to feel the incipient presence of something supernatural and unfriendly stalking his aged abode, and one morning he is found dead at the foot of the stairs. The cat is implicated, even though the house does not have a cat. Neither does mine. And so, like the good (or rather, bad) doctor, ‘I must be strong.’
Saturday 29th August
So, how have I negotiated the third full day without my friend the internet?
With an ever present feeling of frustration, of course. Every time I come into my office I see my desktop image staring lifelessly at me from my computer monitor. I get a little jolt every time. I think to myself that even residual hauntings appear to have some purpose. A computer without an internet connection is but a darkened theatre stage between performances. I noted that we had thunder for a third consecutive day and wondered whether there was a meaningful coincidence involved. I also went to the demolition scene in Bag Lane again. Still nobody working there, but then BT did say that they are ‘working really hard to rectify the situation because we know how important it is to remain connected.’ (‘Fine worts, fine cabbage,’ as Sir John Falstaff quipped.)
On a brighter note, I’m using some of my excessive down time writing another short story. It’s a time slip story, and is the first I’ve written for several years. I’ve even been persuaded to engage in a minor piece of planning which I never usually do, but only insofar as plotting the birth and death dates of three generations of women so as to avoid a glaring plot hole. I hate plot holes. I’m also reading the third story in my new book – the complete short stories of Virginia Woolf. She had a splendid faculty for observing human characteristics and the dynamics of different social groups, and she was a fine crafter of words to boot. The latter, in particular, means that her stories are not only interesting, but even enjoyable to one such as me. Being an inveterate observer myself, I can well understand that she must have had a difficult life mentally, and am not at all surprised that she ended it on purpose in a river.
Sunday 30th August
Dead Internet Day 4 of 9 (allegedly.)
I didn’t go around by Bag Lane today because I had a letter of complaint to send to BT and that took me in the opposite direction. Accordingly, I have no idea whether any work was underway at the crash site. And Mel reminded me tonight that tomorrow is a bank holiday in our little piece of Europe, and on such days it is customary to pay workers twice the usual rate. I don’t suppose BT are any more prepared to pay double wages than they are to look kindly on those to whom the internet has become an essential commodity, so I’m fairly sure that tomorrow will be another unproductive day and the wait will continue.
Apart from that, nothing of note happened today. I got a little gardening done when the rain stopped. And this journal is becoming quite the weighty tome.
Monday 31st August
Dead internet day 5
Nothing of any note today except thinking about Plato and realising a rather strange fact: Human society has always been, and remains, ruled by stupid people committed to destroying, or at least nullifying, those who say sensible things. It appears patently obvious that there is no place for wisdom in politics, only opportunism.
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