When we moved into the flat, nearly three weeks ago now, we immediately set about getting the utilities organised. Most important was the phone, which we needed to get broadband which was vital for me to search for a job. So I rang BT to get the ball rolling. The call centre lad was able to tell from his computer that our flat did indeed have a BT line, and it was working perfectly.
"Excellent!" said I, "Can you transfer it to my name?"
"No problem sir, that will take 11 working days!"
Oh for fu...
11 working days later and of course we hadn't heard anything from BT, despite a promise to ring me to tell me when it was done. I rang them on Friday morning. The BT phone system demanded my BT number, which of course I don't know. Eventually, by mashing the keypad angrily, I got through to a BT person.
Who promptly cut me off.
Rang back, mashed the keypad, got through to another BT punter, a Geordie lass. She managed to not cut me off, and she confirmed that yes, the line was up and running. I was so happy that this farce was over that I declined to berate her for not contacting me. Now, just one minor detail remained...
"Can you tell me what my new number is please?"
"I'm sorry sir, we can't give that information out over the phone..."
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1 comment:
unions, what did I tell you dog... unions...
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