We live in what I’d call a village, but what the locals call a “market town”. It was granted the title in the very early middle ages and people are proud of it.
Delightful things happen here, like the postmistress delivering your parcel to your table on seeing you drinking coffee with a friend at the tea room. Or the placing of a perfectly good sofa in the telephone exchange parking lot with an invitation to anyone who needs a sofa to take it, before it gets tipped.
We have been without broadband for five days. Our server was mystified. It seemed that our connection had simply disappeared, migrated away by some unknown persons. Our server spent five days requesting information from BT – British Telecoms – that are the ones that own all the lines and telephone exchanges in the United Kingdom. BT are not known for speediness. The days dragged on with no co-operation from them whatever.
On the afternoon of the fifth day, Mr Furlong was chatting in our kitchen with the Gas engineer who was putting in the new boiler fan that (luckily) Mr Furlong had ordered off the Internet the day before the crash.
They were chatting about our internet problem and the complete, baffling disappearance of our connection. “Oh” says Mr Gasman “They probably cut the wrong line at the telephone exchange. BT have been there for five days upgrading the system. They are still there now.”
I drove up to the telephone exchange to corroborate the fact that BT were indeed working on the telephone exchange – and they were. In a flash, I relayed this information to Technical Support at our server.
An hour or two later we were online!