Adam* from Virgin Media called me 11 times in 48 hours and now I’m afraid of my phone
I’m in the process of moving into a new flat. I’m also simultaneously doing a full-time remote internship (girlboss!), so setting up my WiFi was my first priority.
The first thing I did was look at Virgin Media because they have those super helpful 12-month student contracts (not #ad, which will become increasingly clear as this story progresses). They didn’t cover the address already, so I filled in their form to register my interest.
2 days passed and I hadn’t heard from them yet. Not even a confirmation email. I was in a bit of a rush, so I rang them.
A lovely lady picked up and gave me a second number to call.
I called them three times and they hung up on me every time. Ouch.
So, naturally, I moved on. No major WiFi company covered my flat, but at least G.Network said they could set up a fibre (whatever that means), so I settled on their cheapest 12-month plan (300 mbps if anyone cares).
I organised a set-up date with them and immediately felt calmer.
That’s when the nightmare started.
One call. Two calls. Three calls.
A text.
Another call. Another call.
Yet another call.
I kept ignoring them, because I’m a new woman with a new broadband provider now.
But the calls didn’t stop.
Another call.
Another text.
At this point, I should probably pick up the next call and politely ask them to please stop calling.
In fact, I probably should have done that when they first called.
But there’s something deeply frightening about seeing that number on my screen now. My heartbeat rises. My palms start to sweat, and my fight-or-flight response is triggered.
Now that I’m writing this down, I’m starting to realise I’m in a hell of my own making due to me being the most stressed out I have been in many moons. So I will now start to complain about an irrelevant, unrelated event that has also been stressing me out.
My microwave was supposed to arrive 3 days ago and is still not here (DPD and Asda when I catch you it’s so joever for you). I’ve had to heat my oat milk for my coffee on the hob like it’s 1958.
The worst part of this ordeal is, when I pour the milk out into my mug, it forms a film on the saucepan. I always forget to move said saucepan off the still-hot hob when I’m done, so the film gets all brown and burnt and weird and is a total nightmare to clean out.
Sometimes I wonder how it all came to this. Here I am — young, beautiful, microwave-less, scared of my phone, desperately waiting for Fran from Facebook Marketplace to text me back about her £7 desk – is this what being 20 is all about?
But, anyway, back to the real villain. Adam, take the hint and please stop calling me. Love you.
*named changed for privacy reasons because we are good ethical journalists #IPSOCompliant
This article appeared in CG93
