O2 – derrickjknight

Who Lived Down Here?

This morning Jackie drove me into the forest.

At the bottom of Bull Hill a troop of donkeys blocked the road. After negotiating her way round them, Jackie drove on until she could stop safely, when I disembarked and walked back to find that the animals had

ambled off to disrupt traffic further down the road.

Undeterred, I followed, trying not to inconvenience the traffic myself, and found them separately secluded in various entrances.

At the narrow, Portmore, end of Jordans Lane

I spotted a stationary stone squirrel sited on slate tiles.

We wondered who lived down here.

On our return home I received a message from EE stating that my number had been transferred – and another from O2 informing me that I was on emergency calls only.

Flo then helped me get my head around using the new device. This, of course, required much patience from her as she watched her grandfather’s nervous fingers stubbing away, often inserting the wrong information, if only with one incorrect digit. She positioned the various icons in Grandpa-friendly locations on the screen.

This evening we dined on tricolore fusilli pasta arrabbiata with cauliflower and broccoli al dente sprinkled with Parmesan cheese accompanied by Hoegaarden in Jackie’s case, and more of the Cabernet Sauvignon in mine.

Otherwise She Would Block The Road

Early this morning I watched recordings of the Women’s rugby World Cup match between USA and Japan, and between Wales and New Zealand.

Later, I telephoned O2 to ask once more for the PAC Code. I was connected to the Sales team. Carl, the man I spoke to, was very helpful and immediately sent the code – twice because it had not arrived. He then realised it had not been delivered because mine was reported as an invalid number. I pointed out that that had not stopped them sending the six unwelcome and, in the circumstances irrelevant, texts on the previous two days.

He left me on hold while seeking advice. He then transferred me to Customer Services. I offered the opinion that, given this was all about my leaving, that was surely the department to which I should have been sent first.

Before Customer Services answered we were disconnected. I heard no more.

This called for a postprandial forest drive.

“Slosh, slosh”, went the heavy breathing Tamworth pigs on Coach Hill Lane outside Burley

as they smilingly shuffled and snuffled around hoovering up the plentiful acorns

falling from the trees overhanging

this narrow, winding, lane

with its homes hidden behind intriguing garden gates.

Many of the woodland verges, like these running all the way through Shobley, where autumn’s brush-strokes are as yet barely adding seasonal colour, are now lined with posts placed to prevent parking of vehicles churning countryside vegetation. When Jackie drops me off for a photo foray in such an area she drives on and comes back for me – otherwise she would block the road just as the pigs were doing.

This evening we dined on roast lamb with crisp Yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes including the softer sweet variety; crunchy carrots; firm cauliflower, broccoli and Brussels sprouts; and meaty gravy, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Puglia Primitivo.

A Family Pic

Just as we joined the queue for the recycling centre, heavy rain which was to continue throughout the day set in. We therefore got a bit wet unloading two large container bags of garden refuse.

This afternoon I printed some photographs for Frances and her family. They were taken on a Samsung phone and e-mailed to me.

I began with the full image of Frances with Fiona, Peter, Paul, and Michael;

then cropped it to take out a distracting light and glass of red wine.

There are sets of each for each of them.

This afternoon Jackie drove me to O2 at Christchurch to attempt to resolve ongoing signal problems. I really can’t be bothered to go into detail on this, save to say that on leaving the store I understood all to be well, and discovered afterwards that it wasn’t. I couldn’t face it again today.

Back at home I finished reading ‘Decider’ by Dick Francis. A former colleague once gave me a heap of books which I think must be this author’s complete works. I have therefore read many and found them all excellent. This was one of the best. As thoroughly researched as usual, one feels that the writer knows all about building, architecture, and explosives, as well as horse-racing. The prose flows easily; dialogue and characterisation are good; interest is held, and the pace of this mystery thriller builds slowly into a crescendo, with all appropriate ends tied up in the last couple of chapters.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s luscious lamb jalfrezi, egg fried rice, and parathas. I drank more of the syrah.

Remembering 7/7

CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE. REPEAT IF REQUIRED.

We have a number of hanging baskets around the kitchen doors.

This one contains fuchsia Blue Angel;

here clematis Warsaw Nike, from its pot clambers up to another containing petunias and lobelia. The white pot contains apple mint, and borage occupies the bed.

Nearby, bidens blooms.

The New Bed is now taking on its summer garb. Fuchsia, dahlias, lilies, clematises, and solanum are all in evidence.

As it is my birthday today, I received a lot of messages. Some of these were texts. For the last couple of months anyone trying to phone me on the mobile when I am at home has not been able to receive a reply and has been sent straight to voicemail. I have then received a text saying I have a voice message which I have not been able to access.

I have refrained from boring readers with this, but today I decided to visit O2 in Christchurch in an attempt to resolve the issue. The problem seemed to have been a faulty SIM card. This was changed, and hopefully things will have improved.

While the O2 man was fetching the new card I reflected on another birthday when I could receive no signal on the mobile phone. This was the day of the London Underground suicide bombs. I is hard to believe that was 11 years ago.

This afternoon we enjoyed, within minutes of each other, visits from Helen and from Shelly and Ron They came bearing gifts. Including Bill, each couple had brought a birthday card and presents of wine and a book, and we drank sparkling squashes on the hand-made garden chairs, of which we now have four, and one, otherwise relegated, perfectly serviceable in black plastic.

An additional gift from Helen and Bill was an intriguing bookmark, made of cork, that they had brought back from Portugal.

Ian and Becky’s present to me was a meal for the four of us at Lal Quilla. This was great fun, particularly as the staff entered so well into the spirit of the occasion. My choice of a main meal was Purple Tiger (a king prawn dish) and special fried rice. We shared onion bahjis, parka dahl, and an egg paratha. Becky drank red wine and the rest of us drank Kingfisher.

At the end the head waiter sang happy birthday and brought me a ‘cake’.

I Didn’t Have The Energy

Once the overnight ice had melted on the pools, the day remained bright and sunny, albeit a bit chilly.

By late morning, perhaps drawn by the sunlight reflected off one of the white tiles left as markers by The Head Gardener when she planted crocuses in the cryptomeria Japonica bed last autumn, even a dozy fly had been tempted out of hibernation.

The prunus pissardi is now in full bloom;

and springing into life are such as the Weeping Birch Bed,

from which wood anemones cast their shadows onto the Heligan Path.

This afternoon Jackie drove me to O2 in Christchurch to sort out the billing problem. Despite yawning every few minutes, the young man who attended to me was very helpful. He rang the relevant department and handed me his phone to speak to a young lady. Then the fun started. What eventually emerged was that the direct debit that I had signed on 27th February had expired three days later. Don’t ask. I didn’t. This meant there was none in existence. I could start one now, over the phone, but would have to ring them again on 12th to pay my first month’s account. I indicated my displeasure at having to make another call to do this. I was given the option of doing so there and then. Having received confirmation that I had been credited with £10 compensation, I settled the balance in advance. I didn’t have the energy to continue the argument.

After this, Jackie drove us into the forest beyond Brockenhurst, where we turned round and sped for home in time to be there for Aaron who had come in for a short time to put finishing touches to the hall painting before the stair carpet is laid on Wednesday.

On either side of the newly surfaced road through the moors. If they want to cross it they just do.

rounded, healthy, ponies gorged on green grass.

One was totally unconcerned by the clouds of smoke billowing behind it.

This evening we dined on Tesco’s chicken breast fillets with bacon, leeks, and cheese; and Jackie’s mashed potato, fried onions, and boiled cauliflower. I drank a very good Chilean merlot given to me by Ian last night. Jackie drank sparkling water.

On The Move

Jackie drove me to New Milton For me to catch the train to Waterloo for a lunch date with Norman. The train was 16 minutes late, and the station toilet out of order. The reason for the delay was ‘a line-side fire’. Such was my discomfort that I felt inclined to offer to help extinguish it.

The arrival into Waterloo added five more minutes to the delay, which meant that decanted passengers fairly sped along the platform.

These barriers must be negotiated by passengers wishing to enter or leave the Underground. This is effected by inserting a ticket which may or may not be returned to you. Sometimes they don’t work. This tends to leave customers rather less than gruntled.

Outside, in Waterloo Road, buses tried their luck with other road users.

Underneath the station a gentleman found enough seclusion to employ his mobile phone.

The woman in the centre of this shot was in such a hurry that she had trouble keeping her feet on the ground. (You may wish to enlarge this one).

In the barriers around the building works opposite these people waiting for the traffic lights to allow them to cross, can be seen viewing windows.

Peering through one revealed this scene, complete with statutory fag sticking to lips.

Across the road, on the paving alongside Emma Cons Gardens, this photographer’s subject was not what it would seem. She was examining the picture she hd just taken of The Old Vic opposite.

On the corner behind the young lady, a gentleman later gave a literal meaning to the expression ‘nose in the trough’.

This mirror-writing version of the Young Vic posters in The Cut was the result of focussing on a window opposite.

A little further along this thoroughfare a cyclist was attending to his steed outside Evans, which is a long-standing supplier of various types.

I normally spend some time over my street shots, but today, because of the transport delays, I was very much on the move, as were most of my subjects.

Norman and I enjoyed a tasty meal at Tas, the Anatolian restaurant in The Cut. My choice was mixed seafood casserole followed by baklava. We shared a bottle of the house red wine.

Jackie collected me at Brockenhurst on my return journey, and drove me home.

I received a text from O2 telling me that my direct debit could not be implemented and asking me to ring my bank who would explain what the problem was. I did so. The bank staff informed me that with a new direct debit the reference number would be changed and that only O2 could implement the debit. The O2 text gave me a number to ring once I had learned the problem. That number was, of course, a machine, giving me only two options, one of which was irrelevant, and the other requiring me to type in my bank details. Just that ‘your bank details’. This message was repeated. I couldn’t get off it, so I politely stated, into the void, ‘I AM NOT PREPARED TO DO THAT’. I then tried the chat line and got referred back to the text. I said I’d visit an O2 outlet at my own convenience, which might take a while.

The usual survey form ensued.

After my splendid lunch I had no need for further sustenance this evening.

Contributing To The Flyer

I haven’t mentioned that O2 sent me an on-line bill for my service on 27th February. By mid-morning the problem continued, so I decided to tackle the issue in a manner that might stir them into action. I engaged in an on-line chat with the billing department. Although I kept my voice down, I did lapse into Upper Case at appropriate times. Somehow it seems more polite to shout in typing. Capitals were employed, for example, when, for the umpteenth time I was required to go through the security questions, beginning with ‘Are you the account holder’?

Possibly in order to refute my statement that this adviser would be no more able to beat the system than any other, a miracle was suddenly wrought. Just before noon I was back on my correct number. Or maybe it was brought about when I demanded that the bill was rubbed out and a new one, reflecting compensation, be presented. This resulted in a promise of a £10 credit on my next bill. We will see. On the other hand, I have to admit that it was probably no more than coincidence. Health warning: the internet transforms a somewhat naive gentleman into a hardened cynic.

I you need me to reinsert your own lost number you can at least now phone me.

This afternoon I set my mind to working on information and illustrations for the First Gallery exhibition flyer, and e-mailing the results to Paul.

Our friend had the excellent idea that a Black & White ‘before’ picture should be accompanied by an ‘after’ one in colour.

The Head Gardener and I have provided pen pictures of each other,

and I have offered this photograph of us during the time we were tending Elizabeth’s garden. Niece Danni made the picture on 6th May 2013.

Finally, this picture of the house taken by the Estate Agent three or four years ago will hopefully fit the bill.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s savoury rice, Lidl’s pork ribs in barbecue sauce, and Tesco’s yellow ticket spring rolls. We have the daft system of sell-by dates in the UK. Anything unsold nearer the date is usually reduced to get rid of it. Tesco’s such offerings always have a yellow ticket stuck on them. Tess’s Village Shop, however, gives it away to family and friends. We therefore returned yesterday with a box of goodies.

After that little diversion, I can tell you that Jackie drank sparkling water and I drank more of the chianti opened four days ago. It was perfectly potable.

Stymied By The System or The Failed Migration

Another young woman at O2 had the doubtful pleasure, early this morning, of being the seventh person I have spoken to about the ongoing ‘farce’. Without going into too much boring detail, especially of the music I listened to whilst on hold, I can report that the culprit department has been identified, and the problem should be resolved in 24 hours. I said I was going on a two hour journey and would be camping in an O2 office if it was not resolved by the time I reached my destination.

Our destination was Mat, Tess, and Poppy’s home in Upper Dicker.

En route we noticed that a pink magnolia, that blends so well with the blue wash on the wall of the elegant Georgian terraced house to which it belongs, is burgeoning. We always enjoy it when we are stopped at traffic lights on leaving Lymington.

The phone problem was not resolved when we arrived at The Village Shop, so we spent a little time in the flat with Mat and Poppy then repaired to the cafe for massive reinforcing fry ups, for we were going camping and might be some time.

The walls are adorned with the paintings that Jessica and Imogen executed there on New Year’s Day.

Suitably fed, Jackie drove me to O2 at the Arndale Centre in Eastbourne. We were to spend the next two hours there.

First we had to find our way to the centre car park. Road works by the station didn’t help matters, but eventually we parked on level 1 and made our way into the shopping mall. The views over the rooftops of this large seaside town were fascinating.

The stores location information was actually very helpful and we were soon at the mobile phone outlet where I was immediately assisted by a young woman who identified the problem, made phone calls, and set the correct procedure in process. She did, however, tell me that implementation could take up to 48 hours and there was nothing she could do about it. Like me, and the telephone advisors she was, as I said, stymied by the system.

I am sure everyone would agree that having a diagnosis for a mystery ailment is, in itself, quite healing. Today’s advisor pronounced that my phone was suffering from a Failed Migration, apparently a very rare event. This has meant that a different, random, number has been transferred to my phone and is currently listed to me, not to another person who has a similar name. Assuming she is right, and her treatment correct, it may be cured in a couple of days. In the meantime, if yours is one of the many contact numbers I have lost and you do wish to remain in touch, I would appreciate it if you would send me an e-mail with the details. Thank you.

There wasn’t much point in occupying the shop overnight, so we returned to Upper Dicker to spend some more time with the family before returning home. On my final check this evening, I found a text message asking me to complete a questionnaire about how satisfied I was with the service I received when I contacted O2 yesterday. I don’t think I need detail my responses. A final text assured me that my views were important to the company and would help them to improve their service. It is hard to see how.

After our earlier slap-up meal, I needed nothing more this evening.

Tales From The Riverbank

CLICK ON ANY IMAGE IN A CLUSTER TO ACCESS ITS ENLARGED GALLERY

BT excelled themselves today. Readers will remember that on 18th December I had cancelled my useless Broadband package, and retained the landline, having to create a new account to include £5 per month to keep my e-mail address. I was told that this new account would be in my name. Even though the payment has come out of my bank account for years they have never been willing to substitute my name for that of Mrs Stockley, who is in any case now, once again, Mrs Knight.

The latest bill still includes the full package, so I went through the hoops and the wait to speak to a man with an Indian accent. He was very helpful. He assured me that there would be a refund on the next bill. But. That is still in the name of Mrs Stockley. It cannot be changed. I politely expressed my displeasure. Eventually the gentleman told me it could be changed at the cost of £50. I hit the roof, and demanded that this be lodged as a formal complaint. It took him a while, but he returned saying he had done so, and included something to compensate for the ineffective Broadband. A manager will call me back within 48 hours. We will see.

Believe it or not, British Gas then capped this. I received, in the post, a bill for almost £700, including a sum of more than £650 I had paid by phone on 11th. I telephoned them. I went through more hoops. And another wait. I learned that the payment, like many others, had not gone through, because of a fault in their system. I was advised to check with my bank that this was so. I expressed displeasure at having to do this. The woman at British Gas offered to call me back in 20 minutes to check. My bank statement confirmed what she had said. She did ring me back. I paid the money and advised her that a simple letter of explanation enclosed with the bill would have been in the interests of customer service – something that her company could well do with.

Later, I decided to go on a long walk. Not, this time, literally. The trip was undertaken in July 2003 in a supportive fundraising effort for the epic row Sam was to undertake the following year. I have featured various anecdotes from the walk, the first appearing in ‘Nettle Rash’, before I had unearthed the negatives. I began to scan them today.

Sam took delivery of the specially designed rowing boat at Henley on Thames, and off we set on a fine Summer’s afternoon around the time of my 61st birthday. He and his friend James took the boat, whilst I walked along what I had hoped would be the footpath. I soon discovered that the banks of the River Thames and the Oxford Union canal were not as smooth and foliage free as that branch of London’s Regent’s Canal alongside which I had trained for the event.

Couple on riverbank 7.03

The stretch along which I followed this couple was plain sailing in comparison with what I had to battle through in the post highlighted above.

Lock gate 7.03

Elderly lock gates, green tresses dripping with possibly unsavoury water, were to be a regular feature of the journey. This was quite useful, as it gave me an opportunity to catch up.

Waterfowl 7.03

Waterfowl were plentiful;

Suckling goat 7.03

a woolly goat, or perhaps a sheep, suckled its young;

Riders

slightly older horse riders ambled leisurely along;

Lichen 7.03

and yellow ochre lichen clung to knobbly branches.

Bridge

Numerous bridges were to be negotiated.

This house is one of those in which I enjoyed a peaceful overnight stay. The story of the most notable exception is told in ‘An Uncomfortable Night’.

These fields were probably located in the vicinity of the above house.

This evening, over dinner, we experienced more of faceless moneymakers’ scant regard for customer service. Our meal was taken at The Raj in Old Milton. On this Saturday night the carpark was virtually empty and, although the restaurant was doing brisk takeaway business, we were the only diners. The first thing we noticed was that, entering the parking area as usual we found ourselves passing through no entry sign. Then came the frequent notices stating that parking at any time, was only permitted for 20 minutes and anyone overstaying would be charged £100. Jackie parked in the street outside and I spoke to the manager. Apparently, with no warning whatever to the row of shops fronting the parking area, the landlord of some of the buildings has implemented the restriction. Many of the outlets, including The Raj, are freeholders who bought their buildings with free parking included. The first owners of the Raj building did so in 1962. There are two other caterers in the block. None of their customers could eat and leave in 20 minutes. All the occupants of the block have joined in making a legal protest.

Jackie chose chicken sag; I chose king prawn khata; we shared a plain paratha and special fried rice, and both drank Cobra beer.

After The Rant

I have mentioned before that there had only been two books in my life that I have not finished reading. The first was James Joyce’s ‘Finnegan’s Wake’, because I couldn’t fathom it; the second was ‘Mort d’Arthur’ by Sir Thomas Mallory because it bored me. I have now managed a third for a combination of the two reasons.

‘Meditations’ by Rene Descartes was so difficult and boring that I did not continue with ‘& Other Writings’ in my Folio Society edition. What I did seem to understand was that this philosophical thinker trusted no perception other than his thought, except that he accepted God as a given. He didn’t trust his senses until he had done them to death inside his head. It did my head in. In fairness, better brains than mine have kept the work in print for almost 400 years. I finally abandoned it last night and began Jonathan Dimbleby’s ‘The Battle of The Atlantic’, which at least promises to flow.

I spent most of the morning trying to unravel my phone problems without becoming too twisted up myself. Do you know, I think Descartes is more comprehensible than our conglomerate corporations.

After going through all the usual hoops, my first call to O2 resulted in my being informed that my long term phone number had been transferred to my new SIM and superseded the temporary one I was given yesterday. The conversation ended abruptly. I cannot say why.

I couldn’t use the new phone which now bore the legend ‘Not registered in network’. I couldn’t even call O2 on it. I wondered if a fuse had blown. It had. Mine.

Using the landline I went through the hoops again and, of course, spoke to a second advisor. He told me that the transfer from business to personal account would take 48 hours. In the meantime I could use the old number on the new phone. I couldn’t. One of the comments this man had made was that if I could try my old SIM card in any phone that it would fit, it should work. I took that card out of the broken phone in order to try it in Jackie’s mobile. I dropped it on the floor. In attempting to pick it up, my lady shot it under the sofa. It’s amazing how much fluff you find when you have to shift a sofa bed.

It didn’t fit Jackie’s phone. I tried a third call to O2. This, once again new, advisor, when quoting my numbers, mentioned one I didn’t recognise. You’ve guessed it. My number had been transferred to the wrong account. This was quite different to either my old or my temporary numbers. Having reversed all this, he told me this would now take four hours to activate.

I will acknowledge that it was difficult to do so through gritted teeth, but I observed that I had been an O2 customer for 30 years and expected better expedition than that. He promised to call me back as soon as he could.

This rant over, I gathered a few more prospective prints for The First Gallery Exhibition. Here is a sample:

This table top illustrates The Head Gardener’s propensity for purchasing suitable item’s from Efford Recycling Centre.

The end of September 2015 was quite wet, as shown by these raindrops on sweet peas.

On 19th January this year, a brief freeze gave an abstract quality to the Waterboy’s pool.

Sunrises, like this on 6th April 2015, are often wonderfully dramatic.

By 27th September 2014, The Head Gardener’s Rest had been installed;

on 29th June, when taking this photograph, she had set these poppy seed heads against the red Japanese maple.

Here a furry little bee plunders a cosmos.

Despite the O2 representative’s promise, and the fact that he knew we were leaving for the weekend after his call, he didn”t make it. I therefore made a fourth call and spoke to yet another advisor. Hee had to confer with someone on the other side of the business, and put me on hold for a while. I was put through to a young lady who explained that they were working on it at the moment, and it should be resolved shortly. I would receive a call when it was done. I could safely take the new mobile with me. I said this was the second such promise I had received today and asked whether I could trust it. She assured me that I could and that it had been a pleasure talking to me.

Later this afternoon, Jackie will drive us to Leatherhead for the annual family evening watching her cousin Pat O’Connell’s direction of Gilbert and Sullivan. This evening’s choice is ‘The Grand Duke’.

All I can tell you about dinner is that it will be taken at an Italian restaurant before the performance.