I returned home from a couple of days away to find
the phone line completely dead. This had happened before but had only lasted for an hour or so, presumably due to repairs taking place at the local exchange. On checking next
door, I was surprised to find that their line was still working. I rang BT to
report the fault and got an Indian call centre. They were polite, but told me I
wasn’t their customer anymore. I’d transferred my line rental to my broadband
provider a couple of years ago. I rang Plusnet; they got me to do some simple tests
then ran a line check.
The problem lies somewhere between the local
exchange (a green box in the next village) and your house, they said. Okay, I
replied, but how long will it take to fix it? We have to contact Openreach,
they said. In the privatised UK, the phone system is just like the railways,
one company maintains the network and other providers rent space on it. The
unwelcome answer came fairly quickly - an engineer would be sent out within
three days. I remonstrated, but it did no good. I’d have to manage for the coming
days without the phone or internet.
Day one: I looked at my diary and all the things I’d
pencilled in to get done for the rest of the week. Most of these required the
internet. I sat at my desk in the house and stared at the unconnected screen of
my desktop, feeling very resentful and frustrated. I picked up my mobile (not
internet connected) and made some calls and sent some text messages. After that
I thought I’d take some time out, and watched Wimbledon and the Tour de France
on TV.
Day two: I began the day as usual, sitting at my
desk to check my messages. Without the internet, these were just a series of
texts. I got frustrated quickly and decided I’d go out for the rest of the day.
I took my bike on the back of my car to Scarva and cycled to Newry along the
towpath. After a late lunch at Grounded cafe, I cycled back up the towpath to
Portadown, then returned to Scarva. I was tired in the evening and made calls on
my mobile and watched some TV.
Day three: I broke my habit of sitting at my desk in
the office. Instead I sat at the table in the lounge and read. This felt
better; first I read long articles from broadsheets, then I picked up a book.
Suddenly, there was a row outside. What are next-door up to now, I wondered? I
put down the book and went to the front door. There was a white van parked in
the driveway with no-one in it. I walked around the side of the house and found
a burly man at the top of a ladder hacking at the phone cable with a knife.
What’s happening, I shouted. I fix phone, he said in
a heavy East-European accent, continuing to hack away with the knife. Okay, I
shrugged, and went back inside. It didn’t look promising. Five minutes later,
he banged on the front door. You check now, he smiled. Sorry, my English no
good, he added. I got the phone and tried it; there was an odd regular bleeping
but no dial-tone. I handed the phone to him. He listened then smiled, okay, I
check. He sat in the cab of his van, picked up a tablet computer and began to enter
stuff with a touch-stick. A couple of minutes later he said, okay now. I
checked the phone again; there was a dial-tone. I grinned and thanked him. He beamed
and proffered the tablet with touch-stick to me. You sign, he said. I obliged. I
fix temporary, he said. Must new line, he said, pointing to the nearest
telegraph pole, I order now. Thank you very much, I said. He winked and
reversed the white van out of the drive with a cheery wave.
When I began this piece, I thought I would end up commenting
on my own difficult adaption to the loss of my phone and internet connection.
But there is a much more important issue to do with adaptability here. Many
migrants have made their home in NI and plenty of them do skilled jobs in
essential services, such as utilities, healthcare and education. We need our
foreigners. They are not a drain on our resources; they are a useful and welcome
addition. Correspondingly, bigotry and hate-crime is always wrong - whoever it
is directed towards. Surely people who have grown up here should know that
better than most.
Images from Belfast
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