Orange Bastards

I had problems with my new Orange phone. Specifically that they won't unbar it until I fax them proof of my address. However, the next day, when I ring the call centre in Bangalore to get my phone put on, there is a problem. So begins three days of growing rage, magnified somehow by the fact of it being focussed into such a small area as a phone. Obviously, sending the phone to my address is no proof at all, but neither is apparently a British Gas bill (Don't ask. I asked about 100 times [post goes on at long, dribbling length] ... Orange[bastards]'s stringent 'policies' ... Oh yeah, I thought, that's helpful ... Orange bastards ... And I have to fight this battle so I can... give them loads of money. Hmmmm. Time to call up the contract cancellation department. I hate to think how much worse this is going to get.

Things I have learnt this week: everyone has a big company phone line horror story; one of the drawbacks of finding someone to let off steam to is that you have to reciprocally listen to their equally torturous tale, which was probably bad enough at the time and gains nothing in the retelling. Rather like other people's dreams, and other people's travel stories, other people's call centre hell tales belong in the huge lead-lined box that we're going to fire up into outer-space; along with all the call centres.

Life's leaving

My beautiful cousin was the latest eligible female to bemoan her unattached status. “What am I going to do?” she asked me, “I'm going to die alone.”
I told her: “everybody dies alone. If you don't die alone it means there's been some sort of a disaster.”