A while ago I decided that internet was optional.
I had been looking around my life and wondering where I could make some cuts, to stop my bank account from constantly bleeding money. Electricity was not something I could do without. Water seemed pretty unavoidable as well. Books and BluRays are just bare necessities. Internet, however, I had on my phone and in my living room. I could easily ditch the wifi and free up a massive amount of time in the process.
Ironically, it took a lot of time getting rid of the wifi. I spent 45 minutes on the phone, listening to the same 15 seconds of the Tchernobyl Children’s Choir torturing “All you need is love” and being passed along from one bewildered Orange employee to the next, all of them going: “You want us to do what? Cancel your account? Why on earth would you want that?”
I took it all in my stride. Of course these people were reluctant to lose a customer. They kept angling for my reasons to want to disconnect from the world wide web and I kept politely rebuffing them. Was I unhappy with the price they charged? No, not at all, thank you, I just wanted to cancel my account. Had they made some mistake in the past? No, I was perfectly happy, I just wanted to cancel my account. But what if I had to do something fiscal, fill out an online form or something? You want me to pay sixty euros a month on the off-chance I’ll need internet for my taxes once a year?, I thought. Very kind of you to point that out, I purred, but I have an accountant to do that stuff for me.
By this time I was talking to a teamleader and she seemed genuinely sad when she finally gave in and said: “I’ll send you a link. If you click on that, the cancelation becomes permanent.”
At which point, I panicked. Was I nuts?! This was the 21st century. I couldn’t possibly do without a constant internet connection. Cancelling wifi would put extra responsibility on my mobile phone and would surely kill the battery in a matter of months. Besides, what if I had to fill out online paperwork?
Four months passed, until I worked out a deal with my neighbours (and indeed, why would every single apartment in an apartment building need its own internet connection?) and clicked on the fateful link. Which, by that time, had been deactivated. With a heavy heart, I looked up the number of the Orange helpdesk and called them a second time.
There they were again, the hoarse Chernobyl Terminal Children’s Choir, bleating “All you need is love” until, after fifteen seconds, the music (for lack of a better word) stopped, there was a click, granting me the faint hope that an Orange employee had picked up the phone… only for the Chernobylians to start from scratch again. And there they were again, the perpetually mystified Orange people. However, being angry with myself for making me go through this a second time, I ran out of patience fairly quickly.
Why would you want to cancel your account?, the boy asked.
I can’t see why that matters, I said. I just want it done. Isn’t that what customer service is all about? Doing what the client wants? I am your client and I want to stop being your client. It’s that simple.
But if you don’t give me a reason, I can’t patch you through to my supervisor, the boy said.
That is a bit strange, no?, I tried. Imagine going to the greengrocer’s and the woman behind the desk goes “sprouts are on sale today”, you say “no thank you” and she yells at you “why the hell not? they’re supertasty! and healthy!”
I’m not shouting at you, the boy said calmly.
You’re missing the point, I pointed out.
Have we done something wrong that makes you want to leave Orange? he asked.
No, you have done nothing wrong. And I love your invoices, I really do. They make my day. It is just a decision I’ve taken. To save money.
Aha, he said. And then the Chernobles were at it again.
I was pacing back and forth on the terrace, having been on the phone for 35 minutes now, while my boyfriend was working on his latest creation, a planter made out of leftover bits of wood. It had taken him forever, but now it was almost done. Take your cue from him, I told myself. Be patient. The wall will crumble.
So you are not happy with your invoices, the teamleader concluded.
No, not quite, I said. The invoices are high, but that’s a detail. I just don’t see the necessity of having wifi in my flat.
Let me tell you about this offer I have for you, the woman said. She started rattling, clearly reading from a document on her computer, about an offer with extra free blah here, unlimited blah there and unbeatable conditions on blah overall. I had stopped listening and was admiring my boyfriend’s handiwork. I’m not interested, I said, fondling his bum. I’m sure the conditions you mentioned are great, but I am just not interested.
Did you understand at least? she asked.
I understood you perfectly, I said.
I don’t think you have, she said. You sound like a foreigner. Probably a lot got lost in the translation.
Had she just insulted my intelligence or my Spanish? I wasn’t sure, which didn’t bode well for my intelligence.
Listen, I said, we’ve gone over this four months ago. The decision has been made. I want you to re-send me the link so I can cancel my account. That will be all.
But why?, she insisted.
And then I snapped.
I had tried polite, I had tried brittle. I had tried logic, I had tried mild sarcasm. I was out of options, but one.
Fine, I said. I’ll tell you. You will of course deny this, but I know you know about this already. The government is trying to mind control us all, via the brainwaves emitted by routers. It’s not enough that they spy on us through our webcams, no, they have to fill our minds with propaganda as well. It has to stop, you understand? I feel very exposed. That’s why my wifi has to go. To escape the brainwashing.
There was a silence. And then some more silence. Even the Post-Atomic Kittens held their mouths. Then the teamleader said: I will send you the link. Please remember to return your router to one of our stores, or you’ll have to pay a 75 euro fine.
I knew you’d understand, I said. Even if some of it got lost in the translation.
I had been looking around my life and wondering where I could make some cuts, to stop my bank account from constantly bleeding money. Electricity was not something I could do without. Water seemed pretty unavoidable as well. Books and BluRays are just bare necessities. Internet, however, I had on my phone and in my living room. I could easily ditch the wifi and free up a massive amount of time in the process.
Ironically, it took a lot of time getting rid of the wifi. I spent 45 minutes on the phone, listening to the same 15 seconds of the Tchernobyl Children’s Choir torturing “All you need is love” and being passed along from one bewildered Orange employee to the next, all of them going: “You want us to do what? Cancel your account? Why on earth would you want that?”
I took it all in my stride. Of course these people were reluctant to lose a customer. They kept angling for my reasons to want to disconnect from the world wide web and I kept politely rebuffing them. Was I unhappy with the price they charged? No, not at all, thank you, I just wanted to cancel my account. Had they made some mistake in the past? No, I was perfectly happy, I just wanted to cancel my account. But what if I had to do something fiscal, fill out an online form or something? You want me to pay sixty euros a month on the off-chance I’ll need internet for my taxes once a year?, I thought. Very kind of you to point that out, I purred, but I have an accountant to do that stuff for me.
By this time I was talking to a teamleader and she seemed genuinely sad when she finally gave in and said: “I’ll send you a link. If you click on that, the cancelation becomes permanent.”
At which point, I panicked. Was I nuts?! This was the 21st century. I couldn’t possibly do without a constant internet connection. Cancelling wifi would put extra responsibility on my mobile phone and would surely kill the battery in a matter of months. Besides, what if I had to fill out online paperwork?
Four months passed, until I worked out a deal with my neighbours (and indeed, why would every single apartment in an apartment building need its own internet connection?) and clicked on the fateful link. Which, by that time, had been deactivated. With a heavy heart, I looked up the number of the Orange helpdesk and called them a second time.
There they were again, the hoarse Chernobyl Terminal Children’s Choir, bleating “All you need is love” until, after fifteen seconds, the music (for lack of a better word) stopped, there was a click, granting me the faint hope that an Orange employee had picked up the phone… only for the Chernobylians to start from scratch again. And there they were again, the perpetually mystified Orange people. However, being angry with myself for making me go through this a second time, I ran out of patience fairly quickly.
Why would you want to cancel your account?, the boy asked.
I can’t see why that matters, I said. I just want it done. Isn’t that what customer service is all about? Doing what the client wants? I am your client and I want to stop being your client. It’s that simple.
But if you don’t give me a reason, I can’t patch you through to my supervisor, the boy said.
That is a bit strange, no?, I tried. Imagine going to the greengrocer’s and the woman behind the desk goes “sprouts are on sale today”, you say “no thank you” and she yells at you “why the hell not? they’re supertasty! and healthy!”
I’m not shouting at you, the boy said calmly.
You’re missing the point, I pointed out.
Have we done something wrong that makes you want to leave Orange? he asked.
No, you have done nothing wrong. And I love your invoices, I really do. They make my day. It is just a decision I’ve taken. To save money.
Aha, he said. And then the Chernobles were at it again.
I was pacing back and forth on the terrace, having been on the phone for 35 minutes now, while my boyfriend was working on his latest creation, a planter made out of leftover bits of wood. It had taken him forever, but now it was almost done. Take your cue from him, I told myself. Be patient. The wall will crumble.
So you are not happy with your invoices, the teamleader concluded.
No, not quite, I said. The invoices are high, but that’s a detail. I just don’t see the necessity of having wifi in my flat.
Let me tell you about this offer I have for you, the woman said. She started rattling, clearly reading from a document on her computer, about an offer with extra free blah here, unlimited blah there and unbeatable conditions on blah overall. I had stopped listening and was admiring my boyfriend’s handiwork. I’m not interested, I said, fondling his bum. I’m sure the conditions you mentioned are great, but I am just not interested.
Did you understand at least? she asked.
I understood you perfectly, I said.
I don’t think you have, she said. You sound like a foreigner. Probably a lot got lost in the translation.
Had she just insulted my intelligence or my Spanish? I wasn’t sure, which didn’t bode well for my intelligence.
Listen, I said, we’ve gone over this four months ago. The decision has been made. I want you to re-send me the link so I can cancel my account. That will be all.
But why?, she insisted.
And then I snapped.
I had tried polite, I had tried brittle. I had tried logic, I had tried mild sarcasm. I was out of options, but one.
Fine, I said. I’ll tell you. You will of course deny this, but I know you know about this already. The government is trying to mind control us all, via the brainwaves emitted by routers. It’s not enough that they spy on us through our webcams, no, they have to fill our minds with propaganda as well. It has to stop, you understand? I feel very exposed. That’s why my wifi has to go. To escape the brainwashing.
There was a silence. And then some more silence. Even the Post-Atomic Kittens held their mouths. Then the teamleader said: I will send you the link. Please remember to return your router to one of our stores, or you’ll have to pay a 75 euro fine.
I knew you’d understand, I said. Even if some of it got lost in the translation.
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