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Zen and the art of Televisual Maintenance

It would appear that I’ve taken a break from the blog while squeezing the contents of the five bedroomed Goddard Towers into a three bedroomed semi which will henceforth be known as Goddard Villa. There were highs and lows, surprises and questions – some more welcome than others, and lots of tits and tears. I discovered that for reasons that died with Frank we have been paying for BT Vision for some time but not actually using it. As part of the new austerity regime I cancelled the Sky subscription which I had whittled down to totally pointless. The process of cancelling was arduous and I was ill prepared. I was asked something in the region of twenty times why I didn’t want Sky any longer having been a customer for fifteen years. I was asked if anyone else lived in the household and I naively answered that I have three children. And what sort of a reaction will you get from your children when they can’t access the wonders Sky has to offer? I mentioned that they seem to be coping with their father’s death without any counselling so I’m anticipating a bit of freeview won’t be an indefatigable challenge. Undeterred the Sky representative prattled on. And on and on. When he realised I was muleishly stubborn he asked for my telephone number. I made one up, anticipating (rightly as it turns out) that I would receive numerous sales calls with bounteous offers if I come back to the fold.

I have, as it turns out, disclosed my mobile number to Sky at some point. Four days after cancelling I received the first call from a troubled Sky rep, concerned about how I am coping without endless repeats of Friends, Top Gear and a plethora of plane crashes and police chases. I tried my best to reassure the representative that we are thriving and can actually access the same old shit for a fraction of the price, not to mention the Twinset are rather good at using iPlayer, thank you for your concern. The following evening I received a further call. Drastic action was clearly called for since both callers were able to identify the exact moment that dinner needed to be served.

I have been lucky enough to be counselled by Frank in the art of abusing cold callers. The last one I remember followed his iPhone purchase, and having ticked the box that he didn’t require insurance received a flurry of calls from India. The one that brought an end to the 7pm irritation was when he informed the caller that since he didn’t work in a call centre he earned so much money that if he dropped the phone down the shitter he would simply buy another one. How many times have you caused a telesales person hang up on you?

On call two when asked if I was missing Sky I said that in fact I was. I could sense the excitement at the other end of the phone and was informed that for a limited time only…. yawn… you get the drift. I enquired whether the new Sky box would talk to me like the old one did. Silence. I said that I was finding it difficult to cope without instructions from God, but that on the other hand life was far easier not having to paint myself in white gloss paint before watching Eastenders to ensure that MI5 can’t penetrate my mind and see how I plan to kick off the rapture. I’ve not heard a peep out of them since. Bob’s your Uncle and Fanny’s your aunt.

What has been reassuring is that the Little Darlings haven’t noticed the absence of Sky at Goddard Villa, and that their bad mother is happier, healthier and nicer to know. But still a badass deep down.