There’s a line in one of James Joyce’s Dubliners short stories about Mr. Duffy who “lived a short distance from his body.” That’s how I feel this morning. Bought a router for the computer and spent “chatting” with a succession of tech support people (Suchita, badge 71460 and Kaustav 71122, to name but two) trying to get it installed. Each asked the same initial questions, then poked this way and that, and suddenly wrote, “I understand you no longer need my assistance.” No, don’t go! Reconnecting meant a new technician and starting from scratch, “Could you please let me know what is the main issue, so that I can assist you further?” Arrghh, not again! Finally, after 4 hours and 28 minutes, Prasad (#71591), my fifth contact, advised to “get router back to store and get it replaced.”
How did I manage to waste all that time and come away with nothing to show for it? Following a night of restless sleep, I feel like Mr. Duffy: disconnected from my body. Makes me wonder how much time is spent, every hour, every minute, as we chat and text and blog away — communicating into the void.