I took my very sick phone in for a number of second opinions yesterday. The first attempt was at Rosebank Vodacom, where the jovial gentleman behind the counter offered the opinion that (eish) my phone was “very, very sick madam.”
I found this quite amusing, because I was expecting something more along the lines of “Eish, this is what we in the business call fucked, madam.”
He suggested I take my “sick phone to the Vodacare ICU at Sandton City, where there are many, many doctors waiting” to fix my phone. Sweet.
I’m not a big fan of Sandton City. I enter that mall and lose all sense of direction (I grew up in Bryanston. Sandton should be second nature to me. It’s not) So I brought a buddy along for moral support and parked on the roof, because it narrows down the car hunt when there’s only one level to search.
The first place we found was the Vodacom Shop. We walked in and asked for the Vodacom customer care and repair shop.
First employee: Blank stare. Opens mouth. Shuts mouth. Blinks.
Second employee: “Not here. You have to go out to Midrand for that.”
Helpful customer: “No, man – there’s a Vodacare right here… just go up the escalators, it’s opposite Edgars.”
Brings a whole new meaning to Customer Service. Thanking the customer for this useful information, we pottered on.
At the Vodacare shop, I handed my phone across and suggested that it might have a virus. The friendly lady said she thought it was the phone’s software, but would check for me anyway. She took my sim card out, placed it in her phone and did likewise with her sim card in my phone. I asked her if she was sure about what she was doing… if it’s a virus surely it’s going to poke her phone too?
She carried on regardless. Suddenly my phone was fine, but her phone reported receiving messages of “ææææææææææææææææ” content. Not pretty.
“Hmm,” she proclaimed, “it seems to be a virus.”
You don’t say.
Once we’d come to this groundbreaking deduction, we were able to move forward and I was able to get my phone fixed. But it all goes to show. Vodacom really does care – enough to sacrifice a personal employee’s phone to an unknown virus. Now that’s love.
Ps. I’m having no joy with my breakfasts. I have a designated bowl that contains my daily dose of cereal from home. Yesterday, the bowl must have, at some point in its recent past, contained washing powder granules. I came to this conclusion because there was a decidedly soapy taste to my pronutro and as I got closer to the bottom the consistency became more and more soapy. And crunchy. And yes, I ate it all because it’s what I do.
As you can see, I survived, although my digestive tract is in all probability whiter than white, with any colours protected by the new colour action formula.
Not one to be easily deterred, I cleaned the bowl and rinsed, and rinsed and rinsed, until I was satisfied there was no soapy residue remaining. This morning, when I went to top up my Special K with the milk provided at work, I tipped a cupful of low-fat in before I realised the milk was off.
But I ate it all. Because it’s just what I do.