Wednesday, 8 July 2015

please release me, let me go

If sorry seems to be the hardest word, goodbye is definitely giving it a run for its money. Particularly if the goodbye in question is a tah-rah to your mobile network provider. Let’s be honest, none of them make it easy to go. The last time I made the leap was two years ago when I had a very odd conversation with an increasingly manic Orange rep who became all mum-like and accused me of being under the influence of an errant Apple assistant. Apple was making me leave them, couldn’t I see? And what was I thinking wearing a skirt that short?

It was all a bit awkward.

Moving on to the present day and I find myself needing to change networks again because I have a short memory for pain and live in deepest County Down where getting a phone signal at all is akin to chasing gold at the end of the rainbow. Sure, you’ve heard it exists but that doesn’t mean it’s really there.
 I did a bit of light research – if you can include picking up a copy of Which? Magazine – and sifted through the darknet of phone user forum pages quietly thanking all the contributors for contributing whilst thanking my lucky stars that I don’t have to meet any of them in person. I decided, rather sagely, to move to Three. The process looked straight forward enough – like getting a divorce or escaping an upturned ocean liner in Seventies flares. But needs must.
So here’s what I’ve learned –the hard way – so you don’t have to. You are most welcome.

Don’t assume getting your PAC number is all you need if changing networks but not your phone. You will need to “unlock” your phone via your network provider with a special pin number. This is not information they will offer up voluntarily. Consider it a last “screw you” if you will.

Vodafone, for that is the delightful company I am trying to separate from (and it is beginning to feel like a divorce), will not take requests to unlock your phone by a phone. You need to fill in an internet form from their website, assuming you can find it. I suspect they have other restrictions too, you might need to fill it in by hand, with black ink, on a full moon, at Beltane. I couldn’t tell you. Rest assured this form isn’t easy to find.

In my experience, Vodafone don’t like to take calls at all. They will “put you on hold” or “transfer you to another department” which is code for “I’m going to cut you off now” – something they do with alarming regularity. My grand total for being cut off is four times in 90 mins. I didn’t even get a chance to raise my voice. Expect a large chunk of your premium-line time to be taken up by Auto-Bot Call Answering Hell. You will not be offered the Cancellation option unless you opt for the Upgrade Option first. Sneaky, isn’t it?

Today, during phone-call No 5, a customer service operator admitted that more and more customers are just being cut off mid call. I didn’t get an answer as to why.

Got an iPhone? If you bought your phone direct from an Apple shop, as I did, Vodafone might tell you that you need to go to Apple to get your phone unlocked. In that case, like me, you will need to call Apple who will tell you, correctly, that only a network provider can unlock the phone. Something we all knew all along. I suggest Apple and Vodafone should be shoved in a row boat in the middle of the Pacific without any oars where they can discuss this matter amongst themselves and leave everybody else out of it.

Do not rely on the IMEI number on the back of your phone being correct, assuming you can read it at all. I used a microscope. The number on mine is ONE digit different to the one I eventually found under Settings (having juggled redundant sim cards around). This difference will not get baby a new blanket or result in an unlocked phone.

If you have to swop a faulty (new) phone at the Apple store at any point in your phone contract (say, the beginning) Apple will email you a work form to confirm this (what normal people call A Receipt). They might not tell you this. Make sure it’s sent to the correct email address and not one of their made-up Apple ones that nobody uses because they will not resend it to a different address later. Now you may think, so what? Right? But in two years’ time when you are changing networks, you may need it for the original IMEI number as Vodafone/your network provider may request it – although they don’t need it – because, sure, why not?

Once you have jumped all these hurdles, double-check and check again how long it will take for the release code to be sent to you via email. And make sure it was actually requested. My first request has magically transformed into a request to unlock international calling. Which I’m sure will be massively useful on a handset that no longer works. Two different Vodafone people advised me unlocking my phone would take 48 hours, the Twitter rep tells me ten working days. But then, working days from which request (we’re already a week in) is a moot point.

Finally, don’t give up. Vodafone don’t want you to call them up and so make it as difficult as possible for you to speak to a human being. But this is true of many organisations. When it comes to the auto-bots handing out enquiry options, always follow the money. If you can’t find a cancellation option, the upgrade one is your best bet. The quickest way to get to a person is to either suggest you’re going to spend more money on the company or threaten to take it away. Sad but true.

Yep. And breathe.,

Friday, 3 May 2013

Diary of a Wimpy Kid

It was the Eighties. Which is irrelevant. And I'd just ordered a burger and fries from that once popular burger franchise, you know, the one? The one that became Betamax to Mickey D's downloading capabilities.

Anyhow, I took my tray of bun-related, skinny-fried joy to the seating area upstairs, passing the little white mouse as I went...

The little white what-now?

I head back to the counter, careful not to step on the wee critter in the process and wait patiently for eye-contact, my fries quietly congealing in their damp paper sleeve. The put-upon man at the tills is used to one-way traffic. He has the look of a man haunted by the flotsam of directionless teens and John Waters movies and right now he is doing everything in his power not to catch my eye.

Me: Excuse me (I shout over the din) EXCUSE ME!

He reluctantly looks over, waiting for whatever fresh hell I'm about to lay at his door. He is ancient. At least a decade older than me, the majority of his customers and all of his staff. Even to my 17 year-old self, he strikes me as A Manager Who Probably Doesn't Manage All That Well.

"I saw a mouse"


"There! On the stair!"

"Where on the stairs?"

"RIGHT....THERE!" I point.

It takes a moment for the penny to drop. I can't keep a straight-face. He watches blankly as I giggle like a loon.

"It wasn't wearing clogs. to be fair" I spurt out.

I bet he really hated teens.

Friday, 28 September 2012


She’s got the cut-glass features of a classic Eastern European femme fatale and, currently, she’s looking at me, from across the bar, with all warmth of a high security prison guard.

“I’m sorry, but that room has already had breakfast”

"Err, no, I haven't"

Her manner is matter-of-fact, she's The Bored Bouncer, as if hotel guests ARE ALWAYS trying to con second breakfasts. The withering disdain seems a bit much, I think. 

To be honest, up until the minute I walked into that breakfast room, I'd taken for granted I was indeed the guest in Room 91 - it's the same room I'd stayed in the week before - but now I was being challenged, it threw me a little.

She repeats herself, because repeating her position will clear the issue up. 

“Room 91 has had breakfast” Her belief so unshaken to contrary evidence,  I wonder if she’s a Creationist.

I'mm in Room 91!” I whine the whine of the unjusted. “And I can assure you I haven’t had breakfast yet!”

She is not having it and, the point is, neither am I. I’m annoyed and I am hungry and I cannot resist challenging this Escher styled logic.

I try another tact:

“Okay, have you seen me before?” she hesitates. Got her.

I imagine my next move might be to invite Her Bloody-Minded Highness to my room...

"See? I can get in!" as I open the door.

"See? ONE toothbrush?" as I show her the bathroom.

"See? A boyfriend I can dial up on Facetime who is a living eye-witness to it just being me and the flocked wallpaper and those weird little disco lights in the bathroom that are meant to affect your mood (which, in fact,  they kind of do, because whatever I am thinking or feeling, their incessant flickering makes me think of Donna Summer and waltzers and screaming-if you-want-to-go-faster and who the hell thought of putting flashing coloured lights in a toilet?)"

I’m about to implement my unconventional plan when I spot my name by the room number

“That’s my name!” I'm indignant now. “Why would I want a second breakfast? I’m not a bloody hobbit!” At which point another waitress leans in. She smiles and informs The Ice Maiden that it's a mistake before disappearing to serve coffee elsewhere. 

The Woman Who Wanted To Say No is foiled. At least this time. Curses. She doesn’t apologise, her mouth as tight as the apron wound 'round her tiny waist.

“Sowhatdoyouwant?” she asks impatiently.

I note she doesn’t offer me a menu. “Can I just have a cooked breakfast, but no eggs?”

“What can you mean by that? Is it meant to be a full Irish breakfast?” 

She really is an arse.

Thursday, 27 September 2012

hearing things

“Nothing yet?” he enquired.

And that’s when I knew I was in trouble. The “he” in question was an audiologist and I was his patient, sitting in a heavily-lined bunker, cushioned from sound, much like (it turns out) my ears.

“I’m afraid your hearing loss IS moderate and that IS significant” breaks the casually brusque Doogie Howser with a preference for upsizing his ISes. I am busy guessing our age difference as he points at the damning evidence before me. There it is, a downward-sloping graph, which he is helpfully deciphering with all the jolly detachedness of an Akela reading a map. (I’m guessing sixteen years.) But this is no map, it IS the inner life of my ears. And they are f*cked.

Wow, I thought, I could be his mother.

“I think you should consider a hearing aid at this stage and do everything you can to avoid further exposure to loud noise”

“Define loud…”

He smiles “Been to a lot of gigs, have we?”

“Yes, Father, for I have”

No nonsense, he talks on: anomalies..blah…in my results…blah blah….indicating loss…blah..might be not be environmental..possibly hereditary…blah…recommending an MRI scan…

Ironically, I was only half-listening because my inner Edinburgh monologue had kicked in:  “A hearing aid? A Hear-ing? AID??  But that’s only a short skip to mechanical hearts! Next stop: walk-in baths! Free bus passes! Whay-hey! I was always advanced for my age!” 

I was sent back outside to wait for my fitting. And whilst I sat on the plastic chair, balancing my belongings, I reeled. I sat and I reeled because that day, I had gone in for a check-up and was leaving with an actual disability. Like the man who walked down a mountain and came up a...creek of shit.

“Look on the bright side, you’d qualify for the Paralympics”

My boyfriend, a man with a profoundly-deaf sister and a practical way of seeing things…

But its not like I suddenly discovered last Wednesday my hearing was a bit..faulty. For years I thought I wasn’t concentrating enough or was being a bit dim - really. That’s the thing about gradual deterioration. It’s deterioration. And it’s gradual. Whether it's your hearing or your eyesight, you compensate for the loss, and keep compensating and then before you know it, you’re doing a Helen Keller with the household furnishings.

I have a friend of mine whose Blackberry typeface setting is so big it can be seen from space. She’ll squint at wine bottles, menus, shaggy dog stories - but her glasses remain in the case. She has a clear view of her place in the world, so what if it's a little hazy?

I don’t know when my hearing started to diminish. I know I missed the odd word, then the odd sentence, then I realized I was listening really, really hard in any situation that involved atmospheric noise, or music, or more than one person. I’d rewind TV shows because throwaway lines were lobbed right out of the ballpark. I didn't hear my phone ring so often, it became a running joke amongst friends. Ah, my friends! This news has been a bit of a eureka! moment for them:

“So, I’ve got something to tell you. I’ve met a divorced unicorn and we’re moving in together…”

Me: (blank face) “I’m thinking of having the spaghetti, what about you?”

Under certain circumstance, trying to catch the conversation is akin to trying to roll a jelly trifle across a cattle-grid. It’s simply not going to get there in one piece.The pub chats I’ve missed; the tiny panic during a “mumbled” shopping transaction; the inability to understand A. Single. Word train station announcers say…oh wait, that’s everyone.

My soundscape has been unavoidably retracting, the dull, sometimes shrill, thrum of tinnitus taking its place. This summer, in Italy, I couldn’t hear the crickets chirrup. I don’t always hear birdsong. I can’t remember the last time the lazy hum of a bumble bee registered in my head. My heart breaks a little bit. It feels like part of reality is loosening from my grasp. I’m DiCaprio, slipping from the floating wood, sinking…

My childhood jumps out at me via albums: Drama (Yes); Two Days Away (Elkie Brooks); Elton John and his Yellowbrick Road; Rod Stewart with Atlantic Crossing; The Police, The Stones, The Who, everything by The Beatles ever; Sweet Charity and West Side Story; Modern Lovers and Kate Bush. I was chained to the stereo, I worshipped at her altar as my nimble hands reverentially slid crisp paper sleeves from cardboard jackets. That exquisite pleasure from feeling the weight of the needle balanced upon my finger, the sheer thrill of being completely absorbed.

By Christmas 1981 I had my first Sony Walkman. Life finally had its own score. I was hooked - and I cranked it up to eleven.

The technology attached to my ears has changed: cassettes became CDs became mini-disks became MP3 players...but the isolated joy has always been the same. Pure and unadulterated.

I don’t know how to end this post. I don’t know how this story will end. I hope to preserve the rest of my hearing. If I’m DiCaprio, I want to be saved by the Carpathia, accept losing a foot to frostbite, maybe, put daft Rose behind me as the holiday romance she clearly was. I don’t want to disappear from this beautiful, audibly-nuanced world.

I continue to listen to music – but I keep an eye on the volume and I carry earplugs (just in case). But mostly, I’m no longer ashamed of not “keeping up” with what’s being said – there’s a reason, and it’s been a blessed relief to finally admit it.

Friday, 11 May 2012

"Are you Sarah Connor?"

The first time I knew Something Was Up was right before my move to Belfast.

It was a time of great excitement, a time of dreaming, a time of swotting up on the locale via Google maps, a time of…damn, what is WRONG with my computer? WHY is it sooooooo SLOOOOW…?

The rainbow of doom had been spinning lazily across my screen with alarming regularity for weeks. For a while, the gaily-coloured beach ball companionably bounced me out of one program. And then another.  And then it upped the ante and began cartwheeling across everything. Things got heavy between us when it started to crash.

And then it all went dark.

I don’t remember much after that but my hard-drive was gone, along with my photos, my questionable movie collection, my short stories, my unused blog posts and the countless invitations I’d ignored from the last chance back-up saloon.

I’d had my G4 Power-book for years. It was a tank of a Mac and I’d loved it. It was sturdy and hardwearing, and satisfyingly retro-heavy. It was deserving of a happy montage highlighting all the places we’d been together: high-fiving in parks, laughing on street corners. It was as loyal as a golden retriever pup and I wasn’t willing to let it go. So there I was, sitting in geek pre-op waiting on a couple of bearded, up-talking Macperts who were about to give it a full frontal lobotomy.

I shed a discreet tear but I went through with the unholy procedure anyway.

Like all things bought back from the dead, the replacement hard-drive was… well, it was not the same. Changed beyond all recognition underneath its familiar metal skin, my computer had been violated. The Krays had gone in and moved all the furniture around, it no longer responded to me. What a fool I had been!

I didn’t have my zombied laptop for long before I unceremoniously dropped it on the floor. Killing it for a second and final time, in a domestic collision between my big toe and the corner of a rolled-up-carpet, it landed with a sickening thunk. I knew, this time, it was over.

They call me Elecno
At the Regent Street Apple shop, I bought a spanking new MacBook Pro. It was glossy and sleek and light as a feather. I was taking it out of its box just as I was putting the rest of my life into one. I didn’t have time to try her out properly (yeah, her) but I was pretty sure We’d Get Along Fine. But my new Macbook was faulty out of the box - the very box I’d just packed up, along with the receipt, and carted off to a storage facility ahead of the move.

And that was the start of it, what happened next is how I got my nickname: Elecno. For I, and I don’t like to be immodest here, have a super power and by a super power, I mean, a really crap power: I can make electronic goods go wrong…by sheer dint of using them. 

The next indicator Something Was Up was when the company I was working for in ordered an office laptop for me. It was the size of a small dining room table, weighed more than a short man and was made by Dell. It was almost-new. And it almost-worked. It was eventually repaired enough times to warrant them giving up and replacing it with something new-new. Dell Replacement No 2 (same make, same ridiculously cumbersome build) was just that. I dragged it two hours down the road to Dublin before I realised the screen was dead. It was taken back to the company’s HQ to be sorted out by a mystified IT – the wires to the screen had magically become loose. When it happened a second time, they decided to replace it with another...

About this time, the Blackberry I’d had for nine months also died in my hand. The screen went blank and that was the end of that. Insured by Orange, the replacement phone swiftly arrived but, being reconditioned, within the space of a week, performed the same dying swan song as the first. I complained bitterly and was sent a brand new phone.

Blackberry No 3 lasted SEVERAL weeks before I dropped it in the washing up bowl.

Look, this, and that other (carpet-related) incident, are the only times in this tale of woe where I hold my hand up, and toe, and say, “Yes! THAT was MY BAD!” I’ll tell you what else was my mistake: thinking a pack of rice and a Tupperware dish were ever going to make it any better...

Orange immediately resorted to a reconditioned replacement, replacement phone. Not that I had time to think about that, I had Dell Replacement No 3 to deal with – this one had a keyboard with keys only loosely attached to the board. Still, at least it had a screen that worked even if I did keep dropping my H’s. (And T’s and D’s).

Blackberry Replacement Phone Number Four didn’t work out of the box. It was so obviously faulty, I followed the Orange delivery man down the office stairs demanding he replace it then and there. He didn’t. Blackberry No 5 arrived two days later via the same (now sheepish) courier. It lasted not much longer thanks to its inability to take calls or email on a daily basis. It was at this stage that a wise Orange employee kindly released me from my two year contract and suggested I find another phone – and also another phone company.

Dell Replacement No 4 didn’t like Word documents. Or PDFs. Leading to Dell Replacement No 5 which worked, if very slowly.

IT began avoiding my calls.

I moved on from Orange to O2 and the iPhone. A year in and things are going okay (touches wood). Mostly I keep my phone in a rubber cover and there’s a plastic screen protector too. I try not to touch it with my bare hands. I’m sporting Marigolds as a fashion statement. 

Dell Replacement No 5 was handed into my old company when I left the job – and not thrown out of a high, hotel window, as often fantasied.

Macbook Pro No2 has just had its hard-drive replaced. (Just two years in.) The upgraded hard-drive continues to spawn issues. As I type, I am just back from my fourth trip to the Genius bar in two months. I think I deserve an honorary blue geek tee for keeping them in business - but my requests remain unanswered.

Like I said, as superpowers go, I won’t be recruited to The Avengers anytime soon but maybe I have my role to play? Maybe people like me are the Sarah Connors of the future? Waiting in the wings as humanity’s secret weapon against our robotic overlords?  

Until then, I’m buying a bonnet and a buggy and joining the Amish. If you need me, I’ll be in a field somewhere. Ask for Elecno.

Wednesday, 2 November 2011

no jacket required

“I was wondering if you would go shopping with me?” ventures my boyfriend addressing the itch I couldn’t scratch that is his wardrobe.

By wardrobe, I don’t mean furniture but the disparate collection of unlikely clothing he seems to have acquired over his adult years. I ponder on how many of them just showed up on his doorstep, a little worn, looking for a warm box to sleep in and some love. On the plus side (a) they all fit (b) they often have some obvious previous function, like being waterproof, or warm or both and (c) they stop him from getting arrested for indecent exposure, so that’s something.

Interestingly, his attire’s general appallingness is directly proportional to how wonderful he is. He might be one of the world’s worst dressed men but he is also one of the world's best men. Yes, he wears his Blackberry in a holster ALL THE TIME but he has the heart of a lion (and is easy to get hold of); he is as sharp as a Hawkins; as emotionally astute as a Phil Collins power ballad and as sincere and fresh as a breath of sea air. He is the rose to my thorn and the sun to my mooning about, so what if he looks like he’s got dressed in a dark room for the last twenty years? A dark room somewhere in rural Russia?

“Of course I will go shopping with you” I reply evenly, still eyeing up the holster, my nemesis.

“Good. I’d like to get some new clothes. Tops and stuff” he concludes. Dear reader, he didn’t have to ask twice! Holster, schmolster! I have stonewash jeans and ancient fleeces to flush out. I’m mentally totting up the amount of bags I might be taking to Oxfam…

I grab my coat and he grabs his “And whilst we’re at it”, I nod to his jacket enthusiastically, “We can update that” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself. I was going to be gentle, go slow, catch a monkey but…

“What’s wrong with my coat?” he asks genuinely surprised. It’s hard to be tactful here. The coat in question is a light ski jacket in purple and turquoise. Turquoise? Even the name of the colour is dated, like saying oblong or Marathon bar or going to keep fit. It looks like a shell-suit in search of its trousers. There’s a hint of bat sleeve and a touch of mid-80s Iron Curtain about it. It’s so wrong, its long missed the turning for right.

“I took it to the Czech Republic twenty years ago!” he protests.

I’m actually surprised he didn’t buy it there.

He looks a little crestfallen and I feel bad “Wow, its taken 20 years for anyone to tell me it’s a bit shit.”

“Darling, you’ve been wearing it for twenty years. Time to move on. Let it go…” I touch his smiling face, his Blackberry holster sticks into my hip. I decide to heed my own advice: the holster can wait.

And he is really easy to get hold of…

And with that we walk out the door in search of a new horizon and jeans. Definitely jeans.

Tuesday, 1 November 2011

you're not wise

"So the cat can't get in"

Was my response to larger-than-life, landlord-stroke-friend's "Whatsis?" as he pointed to the heavy media tome resting atop my fish-tank.

This reference book, the size of two Rogets, an LOTR compendium and the entire back catalogue of Freemans catalogue pressed together, is an unnecessarily chunky, inevitably out-of-date...brick built by people clearly too Amish to Wiki. I don't know why I have it but right now, its full weight is helpfully bearing down on the lid of my tank. A talisman against marauding recently-adopted rescue cats. Ungainly, yes, but helpful I thought. Nicky (larger-than-life/landlord/friend) doesn't miss a thing - including the leftover blueberry scone I'd squirreled away in the fridge for later, which he is now eating. He's prodding the book disapprovingly.

“The cat? What Tigger/Tiger/The Bear? Watsisface?” he says, referring to my recently acquired feline. Nicky does't quite get domestic pets. To be fair, he is a farmer who rears cows destined for dinner plates. Animals are for outside “For fucks sake, Ness, wise yer head!” He shares the last bit of scone and contemplates Stan and Ollie, the two oddly inquisitive fish in question, as they mouth unspoken ooohs at the glass, not knowing that a weight of information separates them from having food and, possibly, being it.

‘I’ll tellya what” he says in his best ‘I’m just a country boy from County Down accent’ - which sounds A LOT like a Cornish pirate - “If that there wee fella" pointing a crumb-laden finger to the cat, "...manages to JUMP up here, then OPEN the lid on that tank, then PULL OUT that there feeding tray with his tiny, wee claws AND THEN catch those wee fish? You know what? You’ll be wanting to put him on the telly.”

He thinks more on the unlikely scenario. (Nicky's secretly fond of the fish.)

“Hell, if he manages to get those fish, after THAT? I’d cook him some chips myself to go with it but"