Aida Austin: Switching mobile phone providers

I am switching mobile phone providers. This morning, on day three of trying to activate a new phone sim card, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, in front of my laptop.

I won’t describe activation-day one. Or two. Suffice to say that as errors go, I prefer human ones.

A human error has got nothing on what a computer can do when it really puts its mind to it. But that’s all in the past now.

Yes, today is a fresh start. I must approach this day as if yesterday never happened; it must be gone, forgotten. To this end, I must now summon the spirit of the Blitz.

10.01. I stare at my laptop and close my eyes.

10.02. Summoning hard.

10.02. Where is the spirit of the bloody Blitz when you need it? I can’t find it anywhere.

10.03. Ohhhh yes, silly old you! It’s lying on the floor of the Vodafone shop you went into yesterday, after it fell straight out through the soles of your shoes, remember? While you were talking to that Customer Service woman who makes a particular point of talking to you in HTML or sometimes, when she’s really on form, Java.

Who, as Paul says, looks at you like you’ve no business communicating with anyone anyway — sure at your age the only people you need to be in touch with is the undertaker and priest — now go away and make yourself a nice cup of tea and have yourself a Marietta biscuit. That’s where your spirit lies — on the floor, crushed. No wonder you couldn’t find it. You’ll just have to do without it for now.

10.04. I open my laptop, and type in the name of my new phone provider’s website. Oops. Seem to have pressed the wrong key. Oops. Happening again. Never mind that your hands feel like bunches of bananas. You’re bound to have banana fingers, what with all the nervous tension that built up in them yesterday.

10.04. Mustn’t think about yesterday or you won’t be able to muster up some renewed hope. You need, at least, some hope. I stare at my new phone provider’s website. This is not helping with the mustering. But at least my laptop is working. At least today, I will only be contending with human error.

10.04. Relax, take your time with mustering. I mean, common or garden hope would be hard enough to find, never mind renewed hope.

10.05. It must be there somewhere. Even a small bit would help.

10.06. Found it! Not your fault that it took so long. I mean, how is anyone supposed to find hope when it’s buried under the layers of misery that come from trying to retrieve the number of an old Vodafone account for the better part of an afternoon?

Or the blankets of despair that come from a terrible debacle with Pin codes that wasn’t, in hindsight, half as bad as the debacle with Puks. The main thing is you’ve found it! Even a tiny bit of hope is better than none.

10.07. My trembling bananas manage to press a small speech-bubble icon which has appeared, saying, “chat to an online agent now”. I call my daughter. She sits beside me. I type in the required login details. Another speech-bubble appears, saying, “You are now chatting live with Connor.”

“Hello,” types Connor, “how can I help you?”

“Promise you’ll stay with me to the bitter end?” I type, “you won’t suddenly disappear?” “Promise!” he types.

“I like Connor,” I say, “though I do feel like telling him that they should make it easier to activate a new sim. I mean, it’s been like someone throwing Lazarus at you and then just saying, ‘well go on then, wake him up’. Which would be fine, if you were Jesus.”

“Budge over,” my daughter says, and types, “my phone has been activated but I have no data.” “That’s no problem,” types Connor, “what phone do you have?”

“A Samsung Galaxy.” “I’m going to send you something now which will sort this out straight away.”

“Thank you so much for not disappearing.” I type. “And by the way, don’t you disappear,” I tell my daughter.

My bananas stop trembling. My hope is renewing itself all by itself! And I do believe — yes — that the spirit of the Blitz has peeled itself off the floor of the Vodafone shop and is right now, wafting back…

The screen says, “Connor is typing.” We wait.

10.11. Connor responds. My daughter says, “where are you going?”

Connor has sent 8 indecipherable instructions to do with phone settings, followed by eight commands to do with, “APN, Proxy, Mmsc http// mmc1/servlets/mmsmms proxymms port mcc272mnc11.”

“To make a nice cup of tea,” I say, “and have myself a f*****g Marietta biscuit.”

The spirit of the Blitz has peeled itself off the floor of the Vodafone shop