F is for Frustration

from The Gashleycrumb Tinies by Edward Gorey

Frustration

I was going to write a moving piece about feeling like a foreigner in your homeland.  But I'm not in the damn mood. For the last three days we have had at best dribbling internet.  Dribbling that eventually stopped.  In that time I have been trying to make the deadlines for this blog challenge, and I have also been trying – even more importantly (I KNOW!  What could be more urgent?) – to get my elderly Dad checked in online, to his overseas flight to ensure that his precious, hard fought for, aisle seats are not given away.

This afternoon I was finally advised that the assurances I'd been given about technical failures in the area and overloads due to the introduction of Netflix were indeed a shiteload of malarky because there's not a thing wrong with the line or the network or the exchange or the provider or the wholesaler or any body.  Nothing.  What has failed, it seems, is my own freaking modem.

So I've gone and bought a new modem and now I'm trying to connect it.  And I've hit a stinking hurdle because I don't know how.  And I'm waiting for the ISP helpline to call me back while I cook dinner before I take Dad to the airport.  And why the heck is the puppy chasing his tail?  The sound of the tappy tappy on the tiles is making me stupidly tense.  And why are those little stars twinkling just within my periphery?  I don't have time.