In
the Black
On Tuesday I picked Tom Holliday up from his house in Stourbridge to retrieve his car from Albright & Wilson's social club, where he left it after Alfie C's funeral. We drove past a pub called the Model and I told Tom that I had received my first text message on a mobile phone in that particular public house, while I was having a pint with the Frymaster General and Jonty Von Rossi, many years ago. The message was from the Imp and it baffled me as I did not know how to reply, but someone kindly showed me and I soon got the hang of it. Originally I had gone against the popular flow of having a mobile phone as I was content enough not having one and I saw the technology as being more of a force for bad as opposed to good; I surmised that mankind had survived perfectly well for centuries without everyone carrying a personal telephone in their pockets all of the time, so I thought that I would simply go on living without such a device, especially as it just seemed another way of eliciting money out of me; cash goes out of one's pocket to be replaced by a little plastic telephone.
Despite my reservations I ended up acquiring a mobile phone eventually as Gorana Holliday kindly gave me one gratis, as she was given it as a freebie when she bought a new computer. So I unwittingly entered the world of mobile telephones and I have been burdened with one ever since. Mobile phones can play havoc with etiquette. For example, if I am in company I do not like to spend time interrupting the conversation by replying to text messages but equally if one does not reply to the messages promptly it could be seen as ill mannered by the correspondent in question, so the whole thing is a social minefield. With mobile telephones, email and social networking you can be contacted at any time at all and you can no longer use the excuse, “I was not in when you called.” Also, people expect a reply right away and feel put out if they do not get one and that creates a pressure all of its own. Taking the telephone off the hook is no longer an option.
In 1971, the year of my birth, the majority of people did not have a telephone and so communication was often slower, more cumbersome but more considered as a result and you often had to go via a third party to get your message across. For example, my Grandad Charlie and Nanny Gladys never had a telephone so you would have to call his next door neighbour Les and either leave a message with him or ask him to drag my Grandad around to his house so you could actually speak to him; if it transpired that you had interrupted Grandad from watching the boxing he would be less than impressed.
Many of you will remember the terror as a teenager of having to telephone a potential girlfriend for the first time and hoping and praying that she picked up the receiver, as opposed to her mother, or even worse her father. Many is the spotty youth who has put down the telephone on hearing the voice of the parent of the girl in question. Then there were those boys who would brave out the parent and ask to speak to the girl only to be asked their name, which they would dutifully provide, only be be further quizzed, “Do you mean Peter Richards or Peter Jones?” The calling boy (whose name was neither Richards or Jones) would then think, how many f*cking Peters is this girl going out with?!
On the odd occasion I am free from my mobile telephone it is quite liberating but equally if I forget to take it out with me I feel horrified and panicky without it, especially when I am not with my son Kenteke; it can feel worse than forgetting your wallet. When I am at Villa Park with Kenteke I pay no attention to my mobile telephone for 90 minutes of complete concentration and when I was in Clun last October for Still-in-Fjord's 40th birthday celebration I had no signal so it was not a consideration for the day and it was like a breathe of fresh air, especially as I was in good company and in wonderful hostelries.
I managed perfectly well without what is now seen as an essential technological item, a computer, until I started to write this nonsense and I would imagine that most of you dear readers wish I hadn't bothered. There have been technical issues in producing this week's Lowlife as the kind, unknown gentleman or lady in the vicinity who has been providing me with complimentary Wifi has suddenly and inexplicably withdrawn the service. I can hardly complain as firstly I do not know the identity or address of the person in question and secondly I have been piggy backing their Wifi for months without having to pay. That said, I do provide Lowlife free of charge, so I suppose what comes around goes around. I could start to charge readers for the privilege of reading this column but I would suspect that my meagre readership would reduce to just one as a result, the one being Willy Mantitt who is eagerly awaiting his opportunity to sue me for libel for deformation of character. Mantitt's character is so badly deformed that unlike Steve Austin, The Six Million Dollar Man, the best psychiatrists could not rebuild it (or so it has been alleged by others, in case Mantitt's lawyer is spying. Mind you, Mantitt tells me his lawyer is not much use and that he is the legal equivalent of the hapless Frank Spencer).
Talking of psychiatrists, I had an encounter with one such this week in order for him to assess the state of my mind, which currently is more deformed that Willy Mantitt's character. In my experience I find psychiatrists to be a slightly different breed to counsellors, with the former being more business like and scientific and generally lacking in humour. When he asked me if I would rather not be single and if I would like a partner I replied “that is the best offer I have had all week”, but it did not go down very well to say the least. The chap that I spoke to was trying valiantly to display what are known as soft skills but he was clearly going against his nature.
I should not complain about psychiatrists as I am also somewhat lacking in humour at present. In my experience there are many paradoxes with depression; I feel very lonely but I do not want company; I don't want to go out but neither do I want to stay in; I feel exhausted after doing relatively little; I know that I am a good man and not a hopeless fool (though many will feel that is at least up for debate) but I do not want to admit it to myself, even though that would help lead me on the path to get out of this horrid condition.
The little bit of gaiety I had left was wrung out of my bones by my utilities company, who seem to be another large PLC business who cares not a jot about the punters who help feather the shareholder's nests. Although the utilities companies make vast profits they still continue to put up the prices by a ludicrous amount year on year but despite this to my surprise and glee when I had sight of my last bill it stated that I was actually in credit by £302, which is a minor miracle considering that Codger Mansions is colder in winter than Hannibal Lecter's stare.
Being out of money and the wrong side of pay day by a fortnight I was quickly on the blower to my power provider but the telephonist at the other end of the line explained that in fact I was only £202 in credit. When I queried this she came out with a long and convoluted reason for the discrepancy and she hastily sent me a revised bill by email. I was promised the refund within four days but lo and behold this did not happen, so again I called only to be told that due to “systems issues” it would take a further ten days to send me the refund. I can imagine what the Pirate's response would be at the Flagon & Gorses if I ordered a pint but stated that I could not pay for it for ten days due to systems issues.
Ten days elapsed and, yes you have guessed it, I was still denied my money so I complained to the company in question and I insisted that I be put through to a manager who stated, “my apologies Mr Horton that you have not received the refund of £92 but …....” at which point I interrupted him to remind him that the sum of monies in question is £202 not £92. The manager explained to me that the figure of £202 was based up on a guestimate on their part but as I had now provided them with meter readings (as I never fail to do, so why they needed to estimate my bill I do not know nor could they explain this) my account is in fact only £92 in credit. The manager promised me that he would personally ensure that I received the monies within another (yes another) ten days. My current mental state means that I am already losing the will to live but this sorry episode made me feel blacker than ever, which is ironic as my utility bill account is the only one that I have that is in the black.
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