Monday, October 24, 2005

Internet@home... ISPS, Spawn of Satan

My net at home experience is moving from the bad to something that's practically surreal.
First, they cut it off for no reason. Ok, so there was five feet of water in VD Road, big deal. Still no excuse.

Then, they lose the guy who set it up.

Then, nobody has a clue why it's not working. My claims of it's dysfuncionality are apparently being treated with the extremely understanding and careful tone of voice reserved for people carrying dangerous objects in a confined place and foaming at the mouth.

Finally a 'Sir' comes online. Reaction; flat-out refusal to believe, but he will humour me anyway and send someone to see if it's really not working.
Yeah, I call helplines to make up for my complete lack of a social life, don't I, just to have someone to chat with?

When's he coming, then? Sometime between 10 and 4.
O-kaaay. I hate to break this to you, darling, but he can't do that, there's nobody home. I gotta work, you know.

Now 'Sir' is getting pissed. There's a distinctly peeved note in his voice that I should express such inconsideration for hard-working members of System Infotech by not having a family, or at least a full-time live-in servant.
We barter for time until we agree on a weekend. Nobody turns up.

I'm pissed now. I mean, there's better things to do on a Saturday off than watch TV in an overheated room smelling of pigeon crap, when there's 3 multiplexes respectively 5,10, and 15 mins walking distance away.

Now, this is going to get boring, so please read the following paragraph 3 times.
I call him again next weekend. He turns up. He sits at my PC, tries to connect, fails, and tells me mournfully that my net is not working. I tell him I know, and can he do something about it. He turns back to the keyboard with the air of an elderly labourer turning to a 45-kg sack. A dialer is attempted to be installed and does not. He stares at the screen and tries again. And again. Scratches his head. Tries again. I know the error code by heart now. Packs up his CD and tells me I have a hardware problem. I do not punch him in the nose. Instead, I think of clouds, mountain streams, Economics, and with a deep breath, and ask him what the problem is.

He doesn't know.

I tell him to find out so I can get it fixed.

He says he's not allowed to touch the PC.

Economics won't work. I run through a semester of Human Resource Management to keep myself out of jail and this guy in the land of the living.


It's been a month now. The above scenario has been repeated three times. I now try a different tactic.
11:45 pm. Saturday Night. 5 beers down. Find a quiet spot. Call 'Sir'. Vent all frustration. realize it's 12:30 and my throat is raw. 'Sir' appears to be in tears. Turn to go back into the restaurant and the doorman snaps to attention like a Presidential Guard. Walk in and there's silence, and eighteen pairs of eyes look at me. I come back to my table. _______ leans forward, asks me if I'm ok, says, "You need a drink, yaar" and passes me the beer. He also seems to be frantically signalling for the check, behind his back.

A different guy comes next weekend, this time with an assistant to carry his bag.

And repeats the performance.

I threaten them with consumer court.

Yet another guy comes. And repeats the performance.

Now I'm researching petrol bombs. That's still achievable, a quick drive-by, light, lob, and the fires of revenge will stretch up into the night sky with the most blissful sensation in my heart. If even one more engineer comes and does what they do, I shall have to start getting into biological warfare against the entire genealogical tree of the principal characters, and I can't do that level of research without the net.

Which reminds me, I need to get the net fixed.


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