In Which I Take a Day Off and End Up Having an Off Day

I had been desperately looking forward to my week off. I needed downtime, a break from all the peopling I have to do each day.

Time for me.

Alone.

Of course, I also had plans. Nothing extravagant. Nothing requiring a passport or a second mortgage.

Just a quiet house. A cup of tea. Perhaps a little writing. Possibly some rearranging of furniture. The sort of gentle domestic pottering that makes a person feel they’ve regained some control over their life.

Unfortunately, the universe had other ideas.

So did my son.

And his friend.

Who were still here.

I had rather foolishly assumed that Monday morning would see the household return to its normal weekday routine. People would go to work. Doors would close. Silence would descend.

Instead, I found myself sharing my long-awaited peace and quiet with two young men recovering from a weekend of enthusiastic alcohol consumption.

One was in bed. The other, a six-foot-seven monument to poor decisions, was occupying the sofa.

Excellent.

Still, I had things I could do without disturbing them. Life admin, I think it’s called these days. A few straightforward jobs I could get out of the way before enjoying the remainder of my day.

The Cooker Inquisition

My trusty old Beko cooker has been slowly dying for about two years.

It began with the burners. One by one, they developed a reluctance to remain lit. You could ignite them perfectly well, but the moment you released the knob, the flame would disappear.

A little inconvenient, admittedly, but not disastrous. After all, the oven still worked. So did the grill. I could manage.

In fact, I had recently decided that I could probably nurse the old girl through Christmas, then see what bargains the January sales might offer.

The moment the thought had formed, Fate sharpened her claws. And promptly killed the oven.

Dead.

No gas. No flame. Nothing.

Wonderful.

That’s the Christmas fund gone, then.

Now, I should explain that I had already identified my ideal replacement cooker. An absolutely gorgeous Everhot, costing somewhere in the region of eight thousand pounds.

Eight. Thousand. Pounds.

For a cooker.

I loved it.

Unfortunately, I am afflicted by a condition known as poverty, which rather limits one’s ability to purchase beautiful kitchen appliances at the price of a second-hand car. So I settled on something considerably more affordable.

A perfectly respectable cooker. Nothing fancy. It cooks food. That’s really all I require of it.

I didn’t even have to pay for it. Well, not right away, anyway. Thank you, “buy now, pay in six months” deals!

And then the fun began.

First came a text message inviting me to book my delivery.

Lovely.

I clicked the link.

Sorry, we’re unable to process your booking at the moment.

Fine. Technical hiccup. These things happen.

Then came another text.

Please book your delivery.

I tried again.

Sorry, we’re unable to process your booking at the moment.

Then a third.

Apparently, I was now being pursued by a booking system that was simultaneously demanding my attention and refusing to acknowledge my existence.

Eventually, I contacted the company.

This produced emails. Questions. Photographs were required. Measurements.

Information about my kitchen and the placement of the windows.

Information about the wall behind the cooker.

What material was it made from? Were the tiles ceramic? What was covering them?

At this point, I began to wonder whether I had ordered a cooker or a small nuclear reactor.

They’re ceramic tiles, for heaven’s sake.

With wood-effect stickers on them.

Stickers.

The company now appeared deeply interested in my decorative choices.

I could practically hear the clipboard being sharpened.

Once upon a time, buying a cooker involved giving someone money and receiving a cooker. Now it appears to involve a preliminary structural survey, photographic evidence, and a written declaration concerning the combustible properties of interior decoration.

I still haven’t got a delivery date.

Or a cooker.

But I have developed a profound understanding of the administrative requirements involved in attempting to acquire one.

One Touch Switch. Several Thousand Touches Later.

While all this was going on, I was also battling with changing my broadband supplier.

My contract was coming to an end.

Vodafone wanted more money.

I did not want to give Vodafone more money.

A fairly straightforward disagreement, I thought.

Fortunately, the telecommunications industry has introduced a wonderful system called One Touch Switch.

The idea is beautifully simple. You sign up with a new provider, they arrange everything with your old provider, and the switch happens automatically.

One touch.

Seamless.

Effortless.

Except, apparently, when I do it.

My new provider couldn’t complete the switch because the two companies had recorded my address differently. One had put the apartment number before the building name. The other had put it after.

That was it.

Unfortunately, both companies insist you select your address from a dropdown list that you cannot edit.

So I couldn’t correct it. Neither could the new provider.

Apparently, the solution was to abandon the switching process altogether and sign me up as a completely new customer.

One Touch Switch, ladies and gentlemen…

Vodafone, meanwhile, seemed remarkably reluctant to let go of me.

Emails were exchanged.

Systems were consulted.

More emails arrived.

I found myself trying to establish exactly when my old service would end, when the new one would begin, and whether I was about to pay two companies for the privilege of using one internet connection.

The whole process was becoming rather complicated and very time-consuming.

I even contacted Ofcom, partly because I wanted the regulator to know that this supposedly effortless system was anything but, and partly because I was beginning to suspect that the phrase ‘One Touch Switch’ had been invented by someone with a very peculiar understanding of the word ‘one’.

The Garage Joins In

There was one more simple job to do. My car needs an MOT and new brakes.

The garage has an online booking system.

Excellent.

I selected the MOT.

Then tried to add the brakes.

Nope.

Apparently, the system could cope with one requirement but not two.

Fine. I’ll telephone.

A young man answered. He sounded rather like an apprentice who had unexpectedly been left in charge of the entire operation.

The manager was off.

Some of the equipment wasn’t working.

He wasn’t entirely sure what jobs they could book because he wasn’t entirely sure what they were currently capable of doing.

Could I call back tomorrow?

Of course I could.

Why wouldn’t I?

It’s not as though I had deliberately set aside a day to get all these things sorted.

By this point, I was beginning to feel that modern civilisation had become an elaborate practical joke.

We have computers capable of designing proteins, landing spacecraft and generating realistic videos of cats conducting orchestras.

But apparently we cannot book a cooker delivery, change broadband providers, or arrange for a mechanic to look at a car.

Perhaps we should put the cats in charge.

Salvation Arrives in the Form of a Duck

In four and a half hours, I had managed to arrange a new broadband provider and possibly cancel the old one. I’ll know for sure when I’ve read through the dozen texts and emails. Everything else is still in progress, despite my best efforts to conclude things.

At this moment, the rest of the house woke up and decided the best use of their time was playing Tekken. Loudly. Subwoofer on full blast. Then, when that proved too taxing, they took to watching livestreams of other people playing Tekken.

Which is a hundred times worse. Because now, not only did I have to listen to the gameplay and two men laughing and shouting about it, but half the bloody internet was coming through the speakers as well.

I closed the bedroom door.

Put my headphones on.

And briefly considered moving to an uninhabited island.

Instead, I did what any sensible, intellectually curious, technologically engaged woman would do.

I scrolled through YouTube Shorts.

And there it was.

A tiny robot duck.

A Microduck.

My anxiety and waspiness evaporated immediately.

Oh. My. God.

LOOK AT IT.

It’s adorable.

A little waddling robotic creature that can apparently learn things.

Not merely follow a rigid sequence of programmed instructions, but develop behaviours through interaction and training.

I immediately began imagining the possibilities.

I could teach it to navigate the house.

Introduce it to stairs.

Show it how to find its way around obstacles.

Train it to come when called.

And, naturally, teach it to swear.

Not in English, obviously.

Well, perhaps I’ll teach it a little English. I’d quite like it to be able to communicate properly.

But the swearing?

That would be exclusively in Microduck.

A delightful sequence of tiny electronic beeps and boops, completely unintelligible to anyone who hadn’t been involved in its education.

Imagine!

A sweet little robot waddles into the living room, looks up at an unwanted houseguest, and chirps:

Beep boop bleepity bloop!

Translation:

You’ve outstayed your welcome. Fuck off home!

Or perhaps it encounters a kitchen full of dirty plates.

Boop beep beep BLEEP!

Will someone please clean this fucking kitchen!

And when the entire household has finally exhausted my patience:

BEEPITY BOOP BOOP BEEEEEP!

I AM SO DONE WITH THIS FUCKING SHIT!!!

All delivered in the innocent electronic language of a tiny duck.

Nobody would suspect a thing.

They’d think it was being cute.

I’d know better.

The duck and I would have an understanding.

And the best part?

Only four hundred dollars!

Four hundred dollars for a tiny, trainable, potentially foul-mouthed electronic accomplice.

I reckon I could get one for Easter.

Yes, yes. I know.

Savings.

Financial responsibility.

Long-term planning.

The emergency fund.

The cooker I’ve just had to buy.

All very sensible considerations.

But have you SEEN the duck?

It’s SO CUTE.

And unlike the cooker company, the broadband providers, and the garage, when I ask it to do something, it might actually try.

Besides, after the day I’ve had, I think I’m entitled to a little happiness.

Even if that happiness comes in the form of a miniature robot waddling around my house telling people to fuck off in a language only I understand.

I shall call it therapy.

The accountant can call it whatever he likes.