I ADMIT that I have a worryingly close relationship to my computer; he and I have spent many a long night together. It’s late on Wednesday evening, home from London and eager to get down to work. Everything looks as it should, my screensaver holiday snap still has a boat calmly floating in a sea tinged pink by dawn breaking over the mountains of the Mani. Little do I know that just over that horizon lies a bank of big black clouds about to burst.
I press the Internet Explorer icon, the little green bar at the base of my computer takes forever to make up its mind to work. Then shows that depressingly familiar: “This page can not be displayed”. I do all the usual tricks: turn off the modem, reboot the computer, cross my toes, smile at it nicely. Nada, zilch, he and I are alone, adrift in a webless ocean. Time to ring CyTA, 132. The helpful voice at the end of the phone tells me it will be 20 minutes to wait. I wait. Eventually a young man answers, “My computer won’t access the Internet,” I say. He sighs. We turn off the modem, we renew my IP address, we access the CyTA webpage, “There’s been some upgrading,” he says, we click on this and click on that. “It’ll be fine now,” he says. Indeed, I think it is, when I press on Google, it appears, “Thanks,” I say and put the phone down.
Then I go to Hotmail. It takes my password, logs me in, then, “This web page is unavailable”. I try again, must be me. Same story. I go to Yahoo, this time it opens as far as my emails “Ah, must be MSN, I think”. I try and open an email. “This page is unavailable”. I snarl at my computer. I look at my phone. I go back to Google, it won’t open. Grrr. I reluctantly dial 132. The pleasant voice cheerfully tells me my waiting time will be 60 minutes. I put the phone down. Then ring again, this time it tells me my waiting time is 20 minutes. I put the phone down, ring again, this time it says 10 minutes. This is turning into the fastest hour of my life. “I can’t open my emails,” I say. “It’s your computer’s fault,” she says. “No, it’s not,” I lie. I have no idea but I am always loyal to those I love. “I’ll report it to a technician,” she says “When?” I ask. “Now,” she says, “they will ring you in the morning.” All next morning I wait. Nothing happens.
I make my fingers dial 132. I am starting to hate this woman who says to me “Your call is in (sic) queue: the approximate waiting time is twenty minutes”. Funny how the missing article starts to get to me. This time I get through to Monica, she’s helpful, we turn off the modem, renew my IP address, log in and out of the CyTA website, Then she finally tells me that my modem needs upgrading, “You can do it easily online,” she says. “You download a program.” We do. It corrupts my IP address, so I can’t access the Internet at all.” “Sorry, I can’t do any more,” she says. “Can I talk to a supervisor?” I ask. “Wait,” she says. “No,” she says, “He’s busy.” “I’m so frustrated,” I growl. “We are all frustrated by computers, the problem is your card,” she says. “My card! What card?! I’ll ring back” I say. I needed some air. I needed the internet. I needed to do something unspeakable to something inedible.
I head for an internet caf? to do my work. When I return. I ring 132. My waiting time is 20 minutes. This time I talk to someone who tells me, you need a new modem. The system has been upgraded. The technicians will come. “When?” I ask. “Maybe tomorrow.” “Maybe?” “Yes, maybe.” I put the phone down, I pat my computer, not his fault after all, I take back all the harsh words. I wait and I wait and I ring again, my fingers now permanently deformed by ringing 132. I speak to Emilios. He’s a supervisor, “When will the technicians come?” “Maybe, later.” “I’m writing about this for the Cyprus Mail.” I say. Five minutes later, there is a ring at the door: two men with a modem. It takes them thirty seconds to fit. “Why didn’t they tell me from the start I needed this?” They laugh. “Different department, we don’t talk,” they say.” Blame the manager.” I do and so should their staff.
