Oh my Brothers, a nice young man from Virgin called round yesterday to "see me right" - ooer!
A black man, tall and slim. Spoke, and had the same bawdy laugh, like Bob Grant in On The Buses. I half-expected him to have a fag behind his ear. He left me with a square box with Broadband written on it.
Husband went up the wall. Did I not tell him to install it? he demanded somewhat rhetorically. I shrugged. Give it to the Kids to set up, I suggested. Isn't that what we normally do? He went a funny colour. I went outside for a fag.
I have no sympathy. He knows I know nothing about this kind of shit. Even to leave me in the same room as someone technical is a disaster. Don't know what his bloody problem is. We've got thricefold the crap programmes on TV now, haven't we? We've got a landline, haven't we? We've got internet, haven't we? Why should he get het up over a bloody square box?
This bloody technology shit. Two hours in and it causes aggrevation. I wind up my clock and sit down to write a letter like in olden times.