After the weeks we’ve had, finally to get, what I like to call; “The internet” seems like a breath of fresh air were it not for the fact that this internet seems to have a vertigo condition in that it doesn’t like to travel upstairs in our house with thin plasterboard walls and a super modern construction. My son, who has been waiting for it, for what must seem like an ice age, cannot utilise this new beast which we have tamed unwittingly and confined to the lounge or sitting room if you please, potato, potato, tomato, etc.
Turns out the internet can not reach the giddy heights of upstairs, seems it may have acquired a case of vertigo from Mrs T, who has a new rather virulent strain of said affliction, which is vexing her muchley. In fact it would be remiss of me not to tell you that after weeks of radio silence, everyone from BT turned up at once today to fit an aerial, to fet the broadband, substandard though it may be. In fact how could it be that living in an 1850’s cottage with walls as think as Trump provided us a better internet service than we get inside our house right now… It beggars belief and so tomorrow rather than galavanting around the Clifton Hills with Benny, I will be spending several hours on the phone to the phone people (oh the irony as they try to speak to you through the medium of email rather than the telephone). Then I’ll be calling up the shed construction people, then i’ll be calling up the driving lesson people to ask them when they will be teaching people to drive again whilst we’ve been plunged once more in to a lockdown version 3.0 or something like that, the time is upon us again to buy records and keep the vinyl economy spinning. I will also be speaking to various builders and that hateful woman in the show home who seems to be positioning herself as the conduit between me and the hapless dusty bastard builders who insist on throwing all their expanding foam into my garden, which will blow into the field, then get eaten by the pigeons and pass into the food chain, and then where will we be? Mmmm?
My final and most feared call is to the plumber who seems to have left an enormous airplane fuselage in the boiler cupboard, I have no idea how to work it, or indeed what it is. The rooms downstairs mimic the Sahara whereas upstairs some parts of Greenland may be a more apt comparison. The whole world has gone mad, in the world of boilers and central heating. I don’t know when it happened but we’ve now a fierce growling Unit outside the side of the house which growls at the slightest noise, not too different to Benny the sentient organic Dog being. The Robots are indeed talking over and they seem to be leading me down a path to I don’t know where. So please Rupert, (the boiler installer) help me to understand what the fuck we have in our boiler room, and can I learn how to tame it, bearing in mind I can barely get Benny the dog to sit or to heel, I don’t fancy my chances.
To be continued…