Superfast Broadband...or a carrier pigeon?

As part of a fiendish plan to rid my life of Orange (after they increased their prices JUST enough to hurt, but not quite enough to fall foul of an OFCOM regulation that would have allowed customers to leave them for breach of contract), I changed internet provider in early February.

After much deliberation (in which I included TH, even though he has barely mastered the internet and still types with two fingers), we decided to opt for BT. Not just any old BT contract for us. Oh no, we decided to go for BT Infinity – “superfast” broadband, delivering our internet pages to our screens  faster than a speeding bullet. If, indeed, a bullet speeds at less than 40 megabytes per second: who knows?

On February 7^th, the engineer came (don’t tell TH I called him an engineer: he gets very precious about how they’re not real engineers...). He climbed up ladders, round furniture and so on, and declared the new internet “installed”. And it was. Browsing the internet was speedy and all was well. We had been advised that things might take a few days to settle down, and that our speeds could fluctuate, so for those first few days we weren’t too concerned when “superfast” slowed to a trickle. However, as time progressed, we were getting a lot more trickle and a lot less superfast, so I called the BT helpline.

You may recall, if you’ve read any other posts on my blog, that when I was having computer problems I was practically begging for a call centre on the Indian Sub-continent. I take it all back…

The BT call centre is now on my speed dial. I will spare you the need to be dragged kicking and screaming through my personal hell, but suffice to say that, with our broadband speed dropping quite often to speeds so low that it would be more effective to send messages by carrier pigeon, I’ve rung them often. They seemed to believe that, if I could get a good speed by sitting on the floor of my first-floor study with an Ethernet connection, then there wasn’t a problem. The fact that we mostly use the internet on wireless connections, sitting in the comfort of a chair or sofa downstairs, wasn’t quite getting through. We’ve had two further visits from a tech…er…engineer, and a nicer man you could not wish to meet. However, after his second visit, he confessed that he believed the fault to lie with BT Wholesale (the ultimate service provider) and not us, our house, or any of the equipment. He also suggested we complain like mad. So we did. Letters of complaint, e-mails to ISPA (The Internet Service Providers’ Association) and more phone calls. In the end, TH cancelled our Direct Debit.

This came at a point where BT India had left us two messages, and then failed to try and call us back again. Instead, they sent TH a text, saying “We are pleased to hear that your internet problem is solved”. Where and how they came to that conclusion may forever remain a mystery, but it wasn’t anything we’d said!!

It’s funny how the mind of Big Business works…within 48 hours of cancelling our Direct Debit, we had a call from BT (left in the form of a voice SMS) to say that, as we’d cancelled the DD, we would henceforth be paying £5 a month extra in processing charges. Within 3 days, someone phoned to say “We see you’ve cancelled your DD. Would you like to reinstate it?” at which point the red mist descended. I pointed out (quite politely, I thought, under the circs) that I couldn’t get an answer or an incoming phone call from BT internet, but that as soon as we stopped the DD we were practically inundated with calls. Odd, that, isn’t it? In fairness, the lady I was speaking to did point out that the payments department and the technical department aren’t related, but she did agree to look further into the background.

So, yesterday….after about twelve phone calls and two house visits to date….someone from BT in the UK phoned. Janice. Janice was nice, friendly and helpful. She was also a Geordie, but this time, unlike the man from HP, I understood every word. We talked through the situation and she arranged ANOTHER visit from an engineer. We had it all planned for Saturday, so that TH and I would both be here. That lasted all of half an hour before she called back to change it to today.

As I sat waiting for the man to come, about half an hour ago, the phone rang. To my surprise, it was a lady from BT in India. The conversation went like this:

BT Lady: “I’m ringing about your letter. I understand you’re having problems with your broadband connection” (Full marks for noticing, I thought…)

Me: “Yes, that’s right. But I’m not sure why you are ringing now” (Backing noise of BT lady saying “Mmm…..Mmm..” in an empathetic and understanding way).

BT Lady: “I’m going to put you through to our technical department right now and we will fix the problem”

Me: “But I have an appointment this afternoon for an engineer to come to my house and try to fix the problem. I’m not sure what good it’s going to do for me to speak to someone right now” (Same understanding/empathetic Mmmm-ing from BT lady throughout)

BT Lady: “Can I call you back in two minutes?”

Me: “Yes, no problem”

TWO MINUTES LATER…..

BT Lady: “I’m ringing about your letter. I understand you’re having problems with your broadband connection” (Is it Groundhog day? Am I having a déjà-vu experience?)

Me: “Yes, that’s right. But as I was just saying, I’m not sure why you are ringing now”.               (“Mmm…..Mmm..” again…) “I spoke to your UK technical department yesterday and they’ve arranged an appointment for someone to come and have a look at the internet this afternoon”

BT Lady: “So, I’m going to put you through to the technical department now, and we will help you to fix the problem right away”

Me: “I’m sorry, but have you been listening to a word I’ve just said?”

Sound of dead line as BT lady hangs up…..

So, I rang my friend Janice. She was very apologetic. I explained that I spend most of my working life speaking to non-native English speakers, and I don’t think I have a problem with speaking clearly and simply to make myself understood, but that BT Lady had apparently defeated me. She clearly had her script, and had been trained to stick to it through thick and thin…

Cavalry has just arrived…I will keep you informed.

Bradford man goes mad with i-pad....

Before I fell into the payroll saga, I was lucky enough to enjoy a little R&R in the Big City. I was going to blog about it then, but I was too busy, so I thought I’d do it now.

Getting to London from Nowhere-on-Thames is usually easy, as we have a railway station at the end of the road. Getting to London on a Sunday, however, is an expedition of epic proportions, as they like to do engineering works every Sunday of the year, or so it seems.  I decided not to get caught out, and went to Slough instead. Slough has been much-maligned since John Betjamin made maligning Slough into a national pastime, but it does have the benefit of a fast train service to London. My carefully-laid plans were, however, scuppered on arrival at Paddington, because the engineering work epidemic had been extended to take in the Bakerloo line of the Underground, which, as is normal when my luck is involved, was the one I wanted.

I decided that, for once in my life, I would splash out and take a cab. This, reader, was a mistake I will not make again anytime soon. Yes, it was a comfortable and speedy ride that took me directly to my destination: The Royal Academy of Arts in Piccadilly. The downside was that, for the pleasure of being whisked there in comfort in the least possible time, I was charged a mammoth 12 (yes TWELVE) of our English pounds. And that was without a tip, which made it even more expensive. If anyone wants any ironing doing, I might have to start offering my services….

On the plus side, I was met by son#1, who whisked me past the queue, which looked like this:

And into the David Hockney exhibition, which looked like… well, it looked like one of the best things I’ve seen for a VERY long time. (You’ll have to take my word for this, as no photography is allowed in the RA).  I’ve long been a fan of Hockney’s work, although I did go off him a bit when he started sticking Polaroids together to make a picture, but this was wonderful. Really, really wonderful. Give a 73-year-old man an i-pad under normal circumstances, and I imagine that he would probably use it as a drinks coaster. Give Mr Hockney an i-pad, and he will record a Yorkshire woodland scene DAILY for several months, in the most wonderful colour and depth you could imagine. It was breathtakingly good. The only negative aspect was the sheer number of people in the exhibition, and more particularly the number of people (seemingly with cataracts, judging by their apparent need to stand as close as possible to every painting) plugged in to audio guides, cluttering up the place for ages and blocking the view for everyone else. In the end, I thanked them, though, because viewing most of the pictures from an angle and a distance made me appreciate just how well Hockney captures the depth and perspective of his scenes.

DH got a lot of press coverage when this exhibition opened, not least because it’s shortly going to be going head-to-head with a Damien Hirst show elsewhere in the capital. Hockney’s publicity for his show features a comment that “all the works in this exhibition were made by the artist” – a dig at Hirst, most of whose works are made by an army of technicians. Most of Hockney’s work for this show has been painted in the last couple of years, and it’s a testament to his talent that none of it looks any less impressive for that.

I was so impressed that I bought my very own Hockney. OK, it’s a print, and much reduced in size from the original, but it is of one of my favourite pictures in the exhibition, and looking at it makes me smile. I’m not sure that makes me a proper art lover, but it’s a good start!

I got the tube back to Paddington, by the way.  

Going to the match...

In my yoof, I was known, very occasionally, to attend the odd football match. In those days (I’m starting to sound like my mother…) there was no undercurrent of vandalism, bad behaviour or social stigma attached to teenage girls, or indeed anyone, attending a football match. It was good family entertainment, not expensive, and fun.

                                  "Going to the Match" L.S. Lowry - Showing Burnden Park, former home of BWFC

The “field of dreams” for me was Burnden Park, the home of Bolton Wanderers FC.  A distant great-uncle had been a director of the club in the 1950’s:  uncle Ted was a family legend..always a good bet to get hold of FA Cup final tickets. My mum often regaled us with tales of sitting within touching distance of HM the Q in the Directors’ box at Wembley for the famous “Stanley Matthews Final”, when Bolton were robbed (as she tells it) of the cup by Blackpool. AND she went to the “do” afterwards at the Café Royal in Regent Street.

My mum’s brother, uncle Bob, had his own cup final story. Once again, uncle Ted had come through with tickets, and great uncle Charlie, uncle Bob and cousin Tony were on the way to Wembley, from the very unsophisticated north.

Uncle Charlie had been warned that London was a Very Dangerous Place, of course, and that he should take precautions and keep his wits about him and his valuables safely hidden. But Charlie was no fool.. Dressed in his Sunday best suit, as one does when going to Wembley, he walked down Wembley way with his younger companions, and uncle Bob checked repeatedly that Charlie had put the tickets in a safe place. Yes, he assured them, the tickets were safe. And they were. As they got to the turnstiles, with hundreds and hundreds of excited fans waiting to enter the hallowed ground, everyone ground to a halt, as Charlie slowly and carefully unbuttoned his overcoat, then his suit jacket, then his waistcoat, then his shirt..to reveal the three tickets, attached to his vest by a safety pin! Apparently, the resulting queue which had built up behind him was both impressive and singularly unimpressed by his precautions.

As the years have passed, and I have two sons, it has been with a certain maternal pride that I’ve watched them develop an interest in football and, unprompted by me, a desire to adopt Bolton Wanderers as “their” team. Initially, they both enjoyed being different from their school classmates who, in this part of the world, tend towards support of the big London clubs, but my boys have stayed true to family tradition, even from a great distance. Son#2 was particularly touched when he completed an internship last year, and as a leaving gift he was presented with a Bolton shirt signed by all the first team players! As a family (yes, even TH has joined in, although his own family roots do mean that he keeps a weather eye on the fortunes of Wolves) we’ve shared Bolton’s ups and downs, through relegations and promotions, the halcyon Sam Allardyce years and a brief and painful chance to play in Europe, and the current less-than-brilliant season which may well see them relegated again.

So, we were all watching, listening or keeping an eye on the weekend’s cup tie with Spurs. 

Fabrice Muamba is 23 years old. A midfielder for Bolton, he came to the UK from what was then Zaire at the age of 9, without a word of English.  After school, where he managed to do extremely well academically, he became a professional footballer and has played for Arsenal and Birmingham City. He’s a father and a professional sportsman who briefly captained the England under-21 squad. On Saturday, he came to London for another day at the office. Just before half time, he collapsed on the pitch and was given CPR for cardiac arrest. His heart didn’t start beating again on its own for a good 2 hours. As I write this, he is still in a critical condition.

I hope, I really hope he makes it. As one fan of the team said, even if he never pulls on a Bolton shirt again, that’s not important. What IS important is his recovery.

Get well, Fabrice. 

Once upon a payslip...

Well, I don’t quite know how I got myself into this, but it’s too late now.

Some months ago, a client asked me if I would take on the task of becoming their translator. They’re in the midst of a French acquisition, they’re an American company, and in-house French speakers are thin on the ground. I said yes, because I quite enjoy the cerebral challenge of doing translations and because…well…because I need the money.

Anyway, it all started off quite gently, and I was pleased I’d agreed. Pleased, that is, apart from when I went off to Nowhere-in-France for the first time in forever without my laptop, and got an e-mail whilst I was on the way to the airport with an “emergency” translation. This meant that I firstly had to acquire a notepad.

I don’t know if anyone has ever tried to buy a notepad in WH Smith at Stansted, but let me warn you. They have two. One is £15 and is leather-bound, and the other is slightly larger than a postage stamp. And there was me thinking that WHS were famous for stationery! With the help of a friendly assistant, I managed to find something suitable on the shelf stacked with games to amuse the under-twelves, and parked myself in the coffee shop to set to work. It was all fairly straightforward, and I arrived in France with my carefully-written translation, where friends lent me a spare laptop, neighbours gave me internet access, and the job was done.

A few other little jobs came my way, and then, last week, my contact sent me an e-mail. It started off by saying “Here is a lengthy translation for you (sorry about that!). It's also a payroll tender document, so it's not even something exciting.” Well, a more accurate assessment of the situation would be hard to find. It’s actually 120 pages of minutiae about the French company’s payroll software, and I’m not yet halfway through and already I’ve lost the will to live. I’ve also got a frozen neck, a bad back and an overwhelming urge to grab Nicolas Sarkozy warmly by the throat, but I am pretty sure I won’t be alone on that last bit.

It’s so boring that bits I’ve already translated just don’t ring a bell when I come across them a paragraph later. It’s also so chock-a-block with acronyms that I am beginning to think they’ve just added them in to make my eyes rotate in their sockets.

So, here’s a little quiz for you. No, I don’t know all the answers, but I will have written them down somewhere.  It starts gently enough, but then it gets worse and worse…

ASSEDIC, URSSAF, CDD, CDI  (easy, huh? Just you wait…) 

DADSU, PERCO, CSG, CRDS, AED, N4DS, DIF, STC, AGS, ARRCO,AGIRC,GMP,AGFF,APEC,CIPS,CIPC R, DUE,CIX, TA, TB,CCNSA,CE,DP,IJSS…….. 

And I’m only on page 20 of 45 in the second of three documents…

I may be some time.

I love my job..

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked to take on a new class at a local children’s centre attached to a school. It was billed as a “Communication Skills” class, and I was told that there would be seven or eight students with a similar level of English.

I’m about to embark on week three. Week one wasn’t too bad. One lady was clearly more advanced than the others: I did a class on parts of the body and visiting the doctor, and at the end I found out that back in her own country (Japan) she’s a nurse.. Oops! The three Polish students can speak a little but write next to nothing. This was demonstrated when, on filling in their registration forms, all three ticked their ethnic origin as being “White Irish”. The Romanian lady understands some things, but can’t write either, so I had to fill in her form. I spent a good five minutes trying to extract her date of birth from her, including miming rocking a baby and singing “Happy Birthday to you” whilst she shuffled through her purse, bringing out her National Insurance card (no birthdate) and a handful of supermarket receipts (ditto). We got there in the end, but I was beginning to see the magnitude of the task ahead.

Week two was a surprise. Half the students seemed to have decided to bring a friend, so my seven had grown to eleven, of whom three spoke not a word of English. Now things got difficult. If I gave the more advanced ones something to do, the non-English-speakers sat silently looking lost, and if I spent time with the beginners, the more advanced group had finished their work and were discussing other things.  The Polish and Bangladeshi contingents help each other, so that works. The Romanian lady brought her friend, so they can at least sit together for moral support. The Hungarian lady went rigid with fear every time I looked her way. The Venezuelan lady, who came with her husband (he speaks English so he went home), sat looking petrified and then gave me a bear hug at the end and said “Thank you”..although I’m not quite sure what I did!

They can all introduce themselves, so that was a start. By dint of struggle, I’ve learned that between them they have 26 children, all or most of whom were born in the UK, and many of whom must therefore speak English, but that hasn’t helped their parents.  They’re all really lovely people and anxious to learn, so the onus is on me to deliver, but this one’s a real challenge.

It’s only two hours, but if anyone’s driving around the Surrey/Berkshire borders tomorrow at about lunchtime and sees a woman in a little car, gripping the steering wheel with a glazed expression and with her hair sticking out all over the place, don’t worry. It will mean I’ve survived another week.