Crossed wires

With no broadband, or mobile phone signal, our house was suddenly technology free. The teenagers, suffering from withdrawal symptoms, kept turning on and off their laptops, staring at their screens in disbelief.

Every so often, they’d forget and try to send a text. Then they’d look at me and say: “Why didn’t you just pay the bill?” They had to learn to use the landline again. You would have thought someone had died.

Even my husband started to go all cold turkey on me: “I need to go online for work. It’s very important.

You’re going to have to sort this out,”

he said agitatedly.

Our BT bill arrived just after we’d left the country for a holiday abroad, as well as tagging on a family visit on the way back. We were away nearly three weeks.

The week after we got back, while still in the midst of unpacking, laundry and catching up with calls, emails and post, my husband handed me an envelope as he headed out the door: “Can you post this today please? It’s very important. It’s the BT bill.”

I did post it. I did. I honestly did.

But then, a few days ago, we received a letter telling us our payment was late. I rang to explain that I had posted a cheque and was told to check again after a few days, as it usually took a while to process.

But, suddenly, next morning, our broadband had been suspended. My husband looked at me accusingly: “Are you sure you posted that cheque?” The boys appeared in a state of shock: “Why didn’t you just pay the bill?” they bawled .

Despite the fact that 15 lively boys were about to arrive at our house in the afternoon for Albert’s tenth birthday party, it was clear that I was going to have to sort this out.

So, in between blowing up balloons and icing buns, I was on the phone to BT. After 40 minutes working my way through their tedious automated system, then waiting on the line, which was always busy, before being cut off, I tried a different tack.

Pretending that I wanted to spend some money, and sign up for some new products, meant that I quickly got to talk to a real, actual person.

They said they’d put me through to the correct department.

But I still kept being cut off. In the midst of it all, while I was putting together party bags and trying to sort out a treasure hunt, still with my ear to the phone, my husband would walk past, shaking his head and glaring at me accusingly: “Are you sure you posted that letter?”

“Is it really that difficult to just pay a bill?” shouted one of the teenagers after he had tried, and failed, to access his Facebook account for the 21st time that morning.

Eventually, someone from BT told me that the billing department’s system had been down all day and they couldn’t access any account details: “They’re advising people to call tomorrow.

But you could try in a few hours if you like.”

So, in the middle of supervising homework, helping Albert to make a vegetable creature to bring into school the next day and providing enough food to keep the increasingly anxious and agitated teenagers fed, I spent another couple of hours on the phone to BT, pretending I wanted to buy some of their products.

Eventually I got through to someone in an Indian call centre with the unlikely name of David. He told me our service had been partially suspended because the payment hadn’t gone through. My heart sank. “But I did post the cheque, I did post it. Honestly I did,” I pleaded with him. I think he felt sorry for me.

“I believe you, Mrs Campbell,” he told me.

“I trust what you are saying. I will turn on your broadband again immediately. It should be working now.”

“See?” I told my doubting husband and sons. “David believes me. David believes me...”

MY friend Lynne was asked to contribute some baking for her son’s football club tea stall on Saturday morning.

“I was just at the supermarket last night,” she told me. “The check-out girl was ringing through the sprinkles, the icing sugar, the butter and she said, ‘Oh, are you going to do some baking?’ but then the large pack of ready made fairy cakes came along...”