I have never had to contact you about an internet-come-phone problem before. But there’s always a first time, that first time being today. I am having intermittent service disruption with both my phone and my broadband. I work from home so it’s something I need to address swiftly.
And I do. I spend half an hour on my mobile phone speaking to a nice man in India. We go through all the motions: what's blinking on my router; assessing that incoming calls are fine, outgoing are not etc. He has a long script to wade through. One that involves repeating everything that he's done, that I've said and what he's going to do next. He's very polite. It takes twice as long as it should. And I'm on my mobile. During the day. Time is literally costing me money. I am finally handed to the faults department, having all agreed that there is one. I am dealt with by a surly woman, she has a flat Lancashire accent and latent anger issues. She tells me how to check my line. It involves a screwdriver and prising open the socket. It’s a bit of an adventure. It feels flirtatiously manly. Like Kylie in her Neighbours overalls. Surly Woman gets annoyed when, at the next stage of the quest, I don't have a second phone to test on the socket. I find myself having to defend my one-phone lifestyle choice (“Its a one-bed flat, I live on my own, I only use one phone at a time, more could be deemed reckless…” etc etc). She's not impressed. She's incredulous. “Well, borrow one!” I hate to admit that I’m still in my pyjamas at this point (let’s just say it’s well past that time of day when people raise eyebrows at ordering something stronger from the bar). Who could I ask? “What about family and friends?” she offers sarcastically. Sure, but none of them live anywhere near me and what with it being a work day...I neglect to tell her about my attire. She tells me to try my neighbours (the few I do know are out, its that whole work-day thing) plus, I live in London. It isn't Eastenders. We don't all hang around the pub's joanna singing tunes about the Lambeth Walk. Us Londoners don't like to know our neighbours. We don’t want to look into the whites of their eyes in case they turn out to be axe murderers. Or religious fundamentalists. Or fans of Boris Johnson. Surly Woman's had enough. She's drawing the line at me not having a second phone. She practically accuses me of making the problem up as she darkly forewarns me of engineer charges for wasted time. (Shame that policy doesn't work the other way, eh readers?). I can almost hear her waving a well-manicured finger at me. Satisfied she has done her bit, she tells me she’ll get the line tested and that someone will call me back between 2-4pm. I’m assuming an engineer from the inner sanctum of the faults department. It’s ten minutes to 2pm already. I weigh up the chances of being caught in the bath. The guilt of not getting dressed has got to me. I wait. And wait. At 5.30pm, I call BT again. I feel more in control. That might have something to do with getting a bath in. I speak to Gareth he’s friendly and not bossy at all. He warns me not to call an engineer out until I have obtained that all crucial second phone line test. Who are these Naomi Campbells of the telecommunications world? I begin to imagine horses’ heads left in customers beds by disgruntled BT engineers. We’ve reached an impasse. So now I wait for my unsuspecting neighbours to return home to see if I can borrow theirs because BT engineers are far too delicate to look at a line problem unless they absolutely know its just a line problem. And their line at that. They won’t get out of bed for anything less. But how am I supposed to ascertain that it is indeed just a BT line problem? And whether it’s internal or external? Isn’t that what BT Engineers used to be for? What next? Will the NHS be demanding its patients to self-diagnose before allowing them to see a doctor?
Really, BT, your customer service is anything but.
