Woe is Bitchy

To all the Blogger faithfuls in Lagos/Enugu/Damaturu or wherever who persist in this hobby whilst battling it out daily with a shitty internet connection, BIG UP my brothers, WE SHALL OVERCOME!

Having been disconnected from my uber-fancy Wireless Broadband setup, NOT because I didn't pay my bill, but because everything in London grinds to a screeching halt once there is even the slightest trickle of snow, its been very difficult for me to exercise the patience now required to get online, and more specifically, onto Blogger.

I woke up yesterday morning, looked out the window, and did my best Pavarotti-esque version yet of "Ohhh What a Beauuutiful Mooorning!". London (well, Park Road to be specific - I can't speak for Tott Court Rd where the likes of The Rukks live) was glistening... and it was gorrgeous! The snow was everywhere. On lifeless trees, and ugly pavements, and even on ugly window sills! It was like a moving, breathing Christmas card, albeit two months too late.

After prancing about in front of the window for a good half hour like a right idiot, I flipped open my Mac Book, only to be told 2 seconds later that I wasn't connected to the internet. I wasn't in the least bit phased, as I'd seen this message more than once or twice before, and so I did the usual refreshing and resetting of laptop and router, exercising my recently acquired "British" patience.

In a matter of minutes the patience was tossed aside, and things escalated to the "Nija" technique of giving my equipment "a good beating" to.. emm... "correct" its electronic head as it were. Good Lordie, I am so ashamed to admit that I spent well over ten minutes shaking, and then slapping, and then punching both my router and MacBook. But in my defence, the cajoling didn't work, and they really left me with no other choice. By the time it dawned on me that the fist-banging and "domestic violence" wasn't going to work either, I was red in the face (literally) and in the mood to shout at somebody. Hmmm... Who to shout at? My service provider of course! And so I telephoned Sky.

A Scott, who I could barely understand, told me, after the painful routine of pretending to be my mother (the account holder) and divulging all sorts of unecessary info, that my phone line had failed the line test. Before I go on, can I just ask this one little question that's been burning on my mind for sometime now?

WHY is it that whenever you call these fools at Sky or 02 or Tiscali or BT (or anywhere where they you know have an account with them, and that they've already succeeded in sucking your gullible ass into setting up Direct Debit), that when they pick up the phone, they say "Hi you're through to {....} How can I help?"

Now, I have no problem with the phrasing of the opening line or anything like that, MY problem is with the fact that they invite you FIRST to tell them your entire problem (knowing that if you've called them its cuz you're really desperate and either about to have a baby or a heart-attack) and then when you're done, act as though YOU'RE the stupid one, by informing you that they really can't take on such detail until you provide them with your account information.

I always feel like saying...

"Wait a minute you stupid high-school drop-out, did You not just ask Me what the problem was?

Did Your idiotic script not just direct You to ask Me that question?

And did you not follow it like a complete Dunce, when you know that what you Should've said was "Hi, you're through to {insert stupid name}, can I have your account number please?"

And now, You have the Audacity to act like I, Emi, BITCHY, a university degree holder, am the mumu?

Simply because I, Emi, BITCHY, a university degree holder, told you my story, like you requested, Before telling you my account number?!

Oloshin!"


But I never do.

I'm too polite! Its this recently acquired "British-ness" I mentioned earlier that just keeps holding me back from giving these hobbits a piece of my (worryingly aggressive and Yorubatic) mind.

So back to the Scott...

It took a while for what he was saying to register, as I have a lot of trouble understanding conk Scottish accents. I know "conk" is an adjective that only really works when describing Igbotic or Yorubatic (i.e. "H" factor) accents, so you can imagine HOW bad the Scottish accent was, for me to refer to it as "conk"!

It emerged, after lots of "Pardon?" and "Come Again?" and eventually, "Ehn?!" from my end, that I'd be wireless-less for 5 days (FIVE WHOLE DAYS) whilst BT (as this was not a fault of Sky - it never is ey?) sorted out the problem.

There's no point in going into what I said to Scotty Mc Scotterson, as I don't remember saying much at all. I was too stumped to say a thing, or argue, or demand to speak to a technical technician guy. Five whole days without Broadband? I simply got off the phone and decided it was a sign from God, or Olodumare, or somebody!

And so, here I am... On my ancient Sony Vaio using ugly Internet Explorer, which I hate, and a crappy dial-up connection, which I hate even more, consoling myself with the knowledge that it could be a lot worse, as the whole episode could so easily have ended with me blogging from a cyber cafe! Yuck! No offence to any cyber cafe regulars or anything, but I simply cannot stand the places. Maybe its because the only ones I've ever been to, have been smelly ones in Lagos like the "Cool Cafe" or whatever its called, which is far from cool! But anyway, that's a story for another day.

I came on here to talk about the time E-Weezy and I went to the ballet, which would've been a lot funnier than my BroadBand woes, but unfortunately those good intentions flew out the window once I "logged on", and was treated to the screeching melodies and harmonies of my "dial-up" connection. It brought back the pain I had been struggling, and failing, to ignore since yesterday morning, and I couldn't take it anymore. I had to share... if only to be the recipient of some sympathy, from somebody, anybody, somewhere, anywhere!

Poor... Poor Bitchy.

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As you may or may not have noticed, this post is unaccompanied by the usual picture or graphic - This is what happens when even Googling, a favourite pasttime of the Bitchy One, becomes difficult. The best she could do for the aesthetic benefit of her few faithfuls was increase font size and add splodges of colour here and there. She hopes the effort has not gone unnoticed.