Disconnected

Some emails I’ve sent to Laura today:
09:52 ‘Internet’s down. Home time.'
09:55 ‘I literally have nothing to do.’
11:12 ‘I think it should be illegal to expect someone to sit at a desk without the internet.’
12:10 ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggghhhhhhhhh.’
12:51 ‘Is there someone I can sue about this?’

It is now 15:37 and this is by far the longest I’ve gone without proper internet access at work since I started here 2.5 years ago. Of course, I still have the ability to check my emails and read the internet on my phone, but when there are over five consecutive hours of work time to kill, it’s simply not a substitute – the iPhone is superlative for passive browsing on-the-go, but when it comes to researching holidays, finding fun social things to do on evenings off or spending hard-earned cash buying jigsaw puzzles on Amazon, a screen the size of a four finger KitKat and the ability to type with only one thumb is somewhat limiting, dextrous though I am.

I genuinely have finished my work, I can’t read my book at my desk, and I’ve been reduced to writing this on Microsoft Word in the hope that I’ll shortly be able to work out how to post to Blogger via email. The situation is untenable. Without full access to the internet, continuing in my current job is absolutely not an option. I need the web to maintain some semblance of sanity, to distract my mind from the unbending futility of my nine to five. If they don't fix it soon, I will have to resign.

And no, it’s not weirdly liberating, you sanctimonious crap-weasels. It’s absolutely fucking awful. If no-one in the world had the web, I might be able to find some joy in the situation. But being cut off while everyone else in the surrounding buildings is still happily connected is like not being invited on a really fun holiday, and while all my friends are there having a seminal time and sending me unbearable postcards, I’m stuck at a bus stop in leaking shoes, and then a van drives by and drenches me, and a really over-confident child laughs and three ex-boyfriends walk by, all with new girlfriends, and see me looking like a fat otter, and then I finally get home and realise that I’ve lost my house keys, and then I get to my parents’ house and find that they’re out for dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant, so I have to go back to work and sleep on the floor of my office, and I wake up with the indentations from the carpet tiles printed onto my face, and then I look in the newspapers and find that all Londoners have been infected with a deadly and completely incurable virus and we have three days to live.

Latest update: "We currently experience high connection issues to the browse environment. This causes the services on the environment to be unavailable for a period of time. At this moment it is not clear what and who is causing this high amount of connections. We will continue our investigation." I’m feeling murderous.