Then I’m in good shape, because last week I went ape. It started when trying to open e-mails and internet. Rude signs kept coming up, like “you are barred because your service manager says aikona wena”.
I dialled the magic number to sort out my problems pronto. A ghost voice prompts to choose a number out of six. Number 2 puts me in a queue for a technician. A tune accompanies the wait.
After 25 minutes the tune, played on a pan flute, turns ugly, and if you could, you’d smash the piped CD into small fragments. It’s probably a bit unfair, because I hadn’t as yet spoken to the elusive expert. But, as it turned out, I would’ve thrown around more than CD chips.
“My name is Happy. How can I help you?” I’m so shaken at hearing a real voice that for a minute I’m speechless. And I forget who I phoned and over what.
“Hello. Can I help you?” The voice now sounds peeved and a far cry from what his name implies. So, an unhappy start. The line itself is crackling, my technician has a soft voice and swallows his words. Coupled to my ignorance of computers, it’s an exercise in futility.
Happy: “Go to start, then run.” Hey, I wasn’t in a race, you dullard. Start? Where? Run? Where to? Ignoring my hesitation, he persists: “Go to properties”.
What? From running a race to seeking properties? Is this Pam Golding? Subliminal advertising thrown in?
Happy’s next words are even more garbled, something about “URL and password”. What has that to do with properties? Has Pam’s clone gone off his beam? I yank the phone from the wall socket.
Prudently, my Heidi went shopping, leaving me to bang my head against the marble desk top in private. The shrinks are right. Afterwards I feel spent, but utterly content.
So what if I’m without e-mails? Mostly spam anyway. And, hey, I even feel empathy for Happy, especially if on “my Pam’s” payroll.