Help Desks

Ok, here is a conversation I had with my local help desk. This is it virtually word for word.

When dialing the helpdesk, as you’re on hold, you enter your directory code which should identify you to the operator as a unique user, which is what I did.

Operator: Good afternoon, can you please confirm your dbDirectory number

Me: is that the number I just typed into my phone?

Op: Yes, sometimes it doesn’t come up on the screen

Me: OK, it’s 0619375

Op: Can you confirm your first and last name please sir

Me: Mark Hall

Op: What’s your telephone number sir?

Me: (sounding slightly irate) it’s 212 474xxxx

Op: That’s not what I have here

Me: Well what do you have there?

Op: I have 207 545 xxxx

Me: OK, that’s my old London number – on the 4 previous times I have called you from NY I’ve asked the operator to update my details, but surprisingly enough they never do even though they tell me they have.

Op: OK, I’m going to put you on hold for about 2 mins whilst I update your details, is that ok?
Me: Do I have a choice?

Op: Well I can just do it while you wait

Me: It’s ok, you can put me on hold

3 minutes later

Op: OK, Mr hall, How can I help you

Me: Well I transferred from London to NY 2 weeks ago and my home drive has just been remapped to a NY server. I was asked to log off and on again for the changes to take effect. I have been putting it off all day because I knew that when I did, it would screw up my PC… guess what?

Op: You’re having problems?

Me: Actually it’s not been too bad. I tried to log on and it told me that I did not have a roaming profile and would use a local profile instead. It booted up to windows and when I checked my drives I had lost my home drive, shared drive, apps drive and my local private drive. Also my email now won’t work due to having no H drive and none of my office apps work. IE explorer works though, so at least I could call you and quote my dbDirectory number eh?

Op: OK

Me: Well anyway, I mapped my home drive manually and it said access denied.

Op: Right. I’ll contact desk top services and ask someone to come to your PC and fix it up
Me: OK, thanks.

Etc etc… ticket numbers blah blah

15 minutes later my phone rings

me: Hello?

Dude (in extremely strong Indian accent): Hi, I am javid from desktop support. You need your computer tuning?

Me: What?

Dude: You want a computer tune?

Me: Not sure what you mean, what information were you given?

Dude: Just that you need a retune. Do you want me to rebuild your PC?

Me: NO!!! I just need access to my new home drive; hopefully everything will fit into place once that’s mapped. I have had a country transfer

Dude: OK, what is the pat?

Me: Sorry

Dude: What is the pat? It will start with two slashes

Me: Ohm the network path… ok

Etc etc

Then – I got an email with this

Hi,

I apologies, I missed the step of permissioning your account. Please re-boot and try again. Or map to it manually.
Regards,
“Bill Blogs”Operations - Americas Identity Administration Infrastructure ServicesArchitecture and EngineeringGTO Information Enterprise Services

Sigh oh sigh of sighs….

Welcome to New York

My first New York post. Having arrived here on November the 1st, start of a new life, new experiences and a new understanding of my place in the world - New York promises anything, delivers something and takes everything.

They say British and American cultures are separated by a common language. I am not so sure of this... perhaps we're two cultures mutually bemused and yet completely fascinated with one another, but there is nothing common in our language.

The further you travel from Manhattan, the more difficult it is to make yourself understood because the retaurants and bars of Manhattan are populated with non Americans used to thousands of accents a day. I don't think it's so much that language is a barrier, but more that being quintessentially English is a way of guaranteeing you'll be misunderstood - deliberately or otherwise.

Last week, my girlfriend and I were sauntering around Brooklyn after a short but enlightening visit to Brooklyn Heights. After carefully pottering around one of New York's most exclusive and well known neighbourhoods outside of Manhattan, we ventured towards the Brooklyn Bridge and the edge of downtown Brooklyn. After amusing ourselves with squirrels and deciding the increasingly factory lined streets were not providing the entertainment value expected on a disturbingly warm November evening, we headed back to the Brooklyn bridge fully intending to make the mile or so walk back across to Manhattan. On the Brooklyn side of the bridge, on the left hand side as your back is to the astonishing Manhattan skyline, there is a small but moderately inviting diner. As you look in it, all the warning signs are there screaming "don't enter, this place really isn't for you". I'm not sure if its the fact that its quite clearly the 1st (and only) place selling food after you cross the line from tourist friendly Manhattan to "real New York", or the two mexican waiters/cooks that are watching the TV in there, rather than either serving or cooking. Perhaps its the "too good to be true" prices... after all $6 for an omlette, fries and a glass of coke seems pretty decent value after you've just paid $10 for a soggy pizza on 5th Avenue 3 hours earlier. My girlfriend sensed it, but my stomach took over my legs and we wandered in.

Even the luke warm "hey we're closing soon" welcome as we entered, the not quite right lighting and the elbow unfriendly tables with extra "slip" on them didn't put me off and within a few minutes I was ready to order. "Right" I announced after scanning the menu with my empty stomach influenced left eye, "I am going to be straight and New York like and demand exactly what I want... not going to take any shit in here". A small, slightly "I've already worked 2 hours overtime" looking man of South American demeanour approached nervously, pen in hand and looked ready to take my order"

"OK, I'll have a cheese and tomato sandwich on rye, with fries on the side".

"Tomato?" He queried

"Tomato" I replied, using the American pronunciation both times. I also ordered a "coke" but was offered a Pepsi and my girlfriend made her order too and at this point, all seemed well. 5 mins later, he returned looking rather pleased with himself and gave me my cheese and tomato omelette. After a double take, I mentioned to him that it wasn't a sandwich. He agreed with my observation, but didn't make the connection between my comment and the fact he'd brought be the wrong order.

"I ordered a sandwich" I said a little more clearly. After a few blinks and possibly trying to work out how many hours wages this mistake would cost him, the waiter asked retook my order and wandered off. Within a minute or two he asked me what kind of bread I would like. I returned the question with "what kind of bread have you got". The conversation went something like this.

"What bread have you got"

"wha or wha"

"pardon"

"wha or rha"

"white or rye?"

"you want wha?"

"WHAT BREAD HAVE YOU GOT"?

"Whi, rye or wholemeah"

"I'll have wholemeal please".

"wholemeal?"

"YES"?

Sure enough, 5 minutes later I got a white cheese and tomato sandwich. Having been defeated by my accent, my reluctance to demand what I really wanted and my guilty, patronising pity for a man who probably took 4 weeks to earn what I do in a few days, I ate my sandwich, drank my flat pepsi and left the diner (after leaving an over generous tip) and laughed it off as an experience.

The Brooklyn Bridge was beautiful and it felt good to be back in Manhattan, where being overcharged for admittedly amazing food and service actually seems like a privilege.

As it happens, we now have an apartment in Brooklyn... and we know exactly where not to go for either omelettes or wholemeal sandwiches... much less a glass of coke!

Mayonaise... I hate it!

Something I need to get off my chest... mayonaise! No, not literally of course, but I have to ask this question. Am I the only person in the world who does not like mayonaise? That white, creamy, eggy crap that seems to belong in every single bloody sandwich in every single shop you come across.

Pawn mayonaise, salad mayonaise, salmon and mayonaise. Want a ploughmans... cheese, ham, lettuce and fucking mayonaise. Dijon mustard and ham? Nooo... it's ham and mustard mayonaise. Horseradish and beef sandwich... sounds nice eh? Nooo... it's horseradish mayonaise.

What the hell is going on? Finding a sandwich with no mayo is impossible these days. It's driving me mad. Just when you see a sarnie that you think can't possibly have mayo in, your hopes and dreams are crushed as you see the tiny, almost embarrassed letters "with mayonaise" somewhere on the packaging.

Finally you see the "no mayo" section in Mark's and Spencer. Thank you M&S, may your profits soar... hang on... chicken and stuffing... are you having a laugh or what? So you can either have mayo or nothing in your sarnie. It might as well be the "this tasts like shit" section.

Pasta, chicken and mayonaise... tuna mayonaise, there's fucking mayo in the rolls... I'm suprised the mexican wraps don't have guacamole mayonaise...

If you hate mayo too... please let me know. Maybe we can do something about this...

Observations in the office

Quiet. Tap tap tapping of keys. Mumbled voices speaking on the phone. Gentle hum of the air conditioning. Glass office. Someone being interviewed. I can see their lips moving but they make no sound. Clenched hands, that "I'm interested in what you're saying" look on their face. Over gesticulation on behalf of the interviewer. If only he knew what a boring human being she is. He looks so enthusiastic, he really wants the job. I wish I could tell him he'll hate it. Tell him to go anywhere, anywhere but here. But no, he really wants it. He wants to hear the tap tap tapping of keys, the quiet hum of the air conditioning and he wants to be one of the mumbling voices on the telephone.

Quiet.

Friday Night Start

Friday night, pink champagne, Big Brother and dinner in the oven... time to get off this computer eh?