I failed to get internet access, but I did it single-handed

I’ve set myself the mind-sharpening challenge of establishing internet access in our cabin in the field, single-handed.

Not having any of the prerequisite skills, I have determined to bring to this task the following virtues: a positive attitude (1), courage (2), quiet, phlegmatic dignity (3), patience (4) and personal restraint (5).

Day one: 11pm. I am up in the cabin, taking my new laptop and dongle out of their boxes.

11.30pm. Trying to stimulate both devices into function. I am doing really well with 1, 2, 4 and 5 but not so good with 3.

2am. Somehow, I have stimulated my laptop into “configuring Windows” for two and a half hours.

4am. Laptop is still “configuring Windows,” the dongle activation instructions leaflet is balled up on top of the cooker, where I threw it an hour ago and my eyes are red.

4.30am. Just checking laptop one last time.

4.31am. Still configuring.

4.32am. Just checking dongle.

4.33am. Dongle still a doornail.

4.40am. I am in bed and now finally, absolutely certain that there is no better analogy for activating a new technological device than “breathing life into the gills of a dead trout”.

4.41am. Bearing virtue 1 in mind, my last thought of the day is: the only way is up.

Day two: 5pm. I’ve returned dongle to Curry’s, and replaced it with smartphone under my son’s close supervision. Now we’re sitting outside Curry’s in my car. My son has my new laptop open on his knees and new smartphone in hand.

“Good phone,” he says, “and a better option than a dongle.” I look at it. “All I can see is another dead trout,” I say. “Mum,” he says, “come on, you can do this.”

“You know what the leading cause of stress is?” I say.

“What?”

“Reality.”

“That’s weird,” he says, “I dunno why this laptop’s glitching.”

“It configured windows for four hours straight last night,” I say.

“Never mind that,” he says, “keep an eye on that glitching. If it’s still glitching when you get home to night, take it straight back tomorrow.”

Rustling an instructions leaflet, he says, “right, let’s get the ball rolling.”

8.10pm. The ball is rolling. I don’t know what I’m doing but I’m doing it.

8.20pm. I don’t know why I’m doing it but I’m doing it. “Typing on a smartphone keypad without reading glasses,” I say, “is the same as playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey, but without the laughing.” I think it’s curtains for Virtue 1.

“Mum,” he says, “what’s your pin?”

“My brain is configuring Windows,” I sob, “I can’t remember,” and it’s curtains for 5, too. “If you relax, it will help,” he says.

8.25pm. It doesn’t.

Day three: 10.30pm. I’m up in the cabin, trying to tether laptop to smartphone, when my husband appears.

“Need a hand?” he says. “No thank you,” I say, for I’m managing to keep an eye on the glitching perfectly well, all by myself. It’s really very easy – it doesn’t stop.

1 am. Struggled all evening to summon virtues 2, 3, 4 and 5. BUT: did it single-handed.

Day four: 5pm. Take back laptop to Curry’s, return home with replacement. 8pm. Replacement laptop is different in all respects bar one: it is also excellent at configuring Windows for four hours straight.

Day 5: I approach stranger in petrol station at the pumps. “How do I make a call on this phone?” I beg. “I need to call my son about Windows.”

Day 6: Accost waitress with my phone and the words, “you’re young, help me.”

Day 7: It’s curtains for 2: Waylay my husband’s friend in town, on the street. ”Pretend to be my husband in the Vodafone shop,” I say, ”for five minutes, that’s all. Just stand behind me and see if you can understand what they say.”

Day 8: In tears in the car, stroking my defunct old Nokia brick for comfort.

Day 9: 11.30pm. My husband and I are in the cabin.

Midnight. Curtains for 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5: There’s only one thing worse than one person trying to breathe life into the gills of one dead trout and that’s two people trying to breathe life into the gills of two.