Sonnick! I Choose You!

In this world of ambiguity, my broadband connection continues to offer one of two states: We Fixed It Last Week So This Is A New Fault or We’ll Definitively Fix It On Wednesday. As it happens, yesterday was Wednesday. It was also that happy date when French people walk around sticking paper fishes on each other because they are under the misapprehension that this is humour, so when I was told that it was going to get fixed that Wednesday, I assumed they were liars and charlatans and that it would only become fixed if it were allowed to break the following day.

Three and a half weeks is a long time for something to be broken. Fortunately, I am not alone. My GP is also having computer difficulties and their server has been offline for over a week now. They can’t access the appointments list and they can’t input or access the patients’ notes. The receptionist was telling me they are trusting that the people who turn up for an appointment do actually have one. She was also moaning that once the system gets fixed, they are going to have to manually input the information amassed while it has been down. Rather naively, I have yet to feel this is the most pressing problem facing them. Avoiding death through inappropriate prescription seemed a rather more important issue to me but then I am something of a pedant. They prefer a freer approach to the dispensing of drugs and will regularly manage to confuse repeats adding random prophylactics or hallucinogens as the mood takes them. I suspect the Prescriptions Witch is behind it. The Prescriptions Witch is 109 years old and likes to ask what a drug is for before she will give you the piece of paper which instructs the chemist to give it to you. She doesn’t do this to Mammy anymore though. Mammy had words, many of which are unrepeatable.
The last time I had dealings with her, it was to pick up a prescription for He Who Knows Everything. Foolishly, I began by going in and asking her for it. She fixed me with a beady look.
“Did he fill out the form?” She barked. “The yellow one? Did you see him fill out a yellow form? Did he fill that out and bring it in here?”
In the face of strings of questions that make no sense I reverted to my natural form: bewilderment.
“I don’t know what he’s done. He just asked me to come in and get his prescription for him.” I wobbled. “He said it would be here.”
“Well, where is he now? Is he at work? Where is he? If he’s filled in a yellow form it’ll be in these!” She held up an inch high pile of yellow cards. “Did he fill one out? Is he at work? Can you ring him?”
“I don’t know where he is now. I don’t watch him every minute.” I said “Can you not look through the cards?”
She huffed and shuffled through them. “There isn’t one here for him. Hang on, I’ll get your prescription now.” Then she went and answered a ringing phone and spent 10 minutes berating the person at the other end. Then she gave me the prescription from a waiting pile.

Anyway. In a moment of genius, it was decided to divert the attentions of our local TD away from drugs, bombs and the economy and towards our lack of broadband. Our local TD is Sean Connick. I have always though Sean Connick to be a rather nice chap and very nearly voted for him, so I was confident he would manage to do something for me.
In Ireland, there are two main political parties. One is Fine Fail. One is Fine Gael. One of them thinks we should all live in thatched cottages and speak Gaelic; the other one agrees with them.
Obviously, these days they have developed relevant policies about important issues like healthcare (will be improved), taxes (will be lowered) and education (will become the envy of the world). While all of these are jolly vital, during the election I couldn’t distinguish between the 7 parties without checking their logos so chose to ruin my ballot on the grounds that all the candidates were as rubbish as each other. Now I come to think of it, I believe Sinn Fein may have branched out a little and added something about banishing the occupying forces. Kudos Lads.

HWKE connected to the costly dial up and sent Mr Connick an electronic mail. 5 minutes later he realised he had sent it to Sonnick by mistake so sent another, correctly addressed this time.
A day passed. There was no reply from Sonnick.
“Maybe he doesn’t like being confused with a hedgehog.” I helpfully suggested. Then I began to gripe. “He could have at least sent an automated reply assuring us he wouldn’t be looking into it as soon as possible. He probably hates us because he thinks we’re English.”
A second day passed. There was still no reply from Sonnick.
A third day passed but this one didn’t count because it was Sunday. On the evening of the fourth day, there was a phone call. It was one of Sonnick’s lackeys.
Sonnick’s lackey had spoken to Eircom. Better yet, Sonnick’s lackey had managed to get some sense out of them. The story, as I fail to understand it, runs along the convoluted lines of “There was a bit that was broken which got replaced but was mistuned and when it was retuned it was the wrong bit anyway so they were going to replace the proper bit but it was windy so they couldn’t but they are deffo doing it Wednesday, ‘k?”
Ice was apparently the culprit. At first I couldn’t understand how ice could manage to break something practically at sea level but, as it turns out, the bit that was broken was the bit on top of Mount Leinster (796m). This also explains to me how it could have been too windy to go up the mast (height 122m). I’m very sorry I called you big girls’ blouses, Eircom.

So. Wednesday came. Wednesday went. In its wake… broadband which works. For now.

My thanks to the patient lads on the BT technical helpline and to Sonnick and his lackeys. No thanks to Eircom though. You are still rubbish and should hang your heads in shame. Be told.