the cable guy

We were moving house. Moving from a cramped flat near Murder Mile to a chunky little cottage in the suburbs. It was time to get disconnected from one place and connected to another.

The cable TV company instructed us to send their set top box to them. They said they would send someone to the flat. 

"When?"

"Between ten a.m. and midday on Wednesday."

"That's no good. I'll be at work."

"Can anyone else be there?"

"My wife works full time too. We can't really take time off work just to return your equipment to you."

"We can send someone to your work address."

"OK."

On the Tuesday evening I tried and failed to disconnect the box from the cable. It was like they were welded together. I tried the only suitably-sized spanner we had. It didn't work. Feeling like a bloody fool, I went to the flat downstairs and asked our neighbour for help.

"I'm crap at these things," I said.

"Don't worry," he said confidently. "I'm sure it'll be no problem."

He felt very masculine and capable as he said that. He couldn't do it either.

So I called the cable company to explain the problem. But at that time of night it wasn't possible to reach anyone who dealt with set top box collections. I learned this after more than ten minutes of moving between options on the automated customer service phone line. I learned that the relevant people would be available again at 9 a.m.

So, in the morning, I headed to work minus the box. I finally managed to reach somebody at the cable company about half an hour before their man was scheduled to turn up at my office. 

"I don't have the box with me," I told someone at the other end of the line. "I just can't get the nut loose where it connects to the cable."

"No, you should be able to turn that just with your fingers."

"I couldn't. I also tried a spanner. My neighbour tried my spanner and his own spanner. It won't come loose."

"That shouldn't happen."

"But it did. So what now?"

"We have a slot tomorrow between three and five p.m."

"I'll be at work."

"What about Thursday between two p.m and four p.m.?"

"I'll be at work. What about an evening?"

"They can't come out in the evening."

"I can't stay home in the daytime."

"You need to return the box, sir."

"I'll tell you what. I'll go home tonight and I'll try a fucking hammer."

"You can't talk to me like that."

"I'll talk to you later. I've got work to do. Just make sure your man doesn't come to my office. He'd be wasting his time."

Half an hour later, their man turned up. I had to have another long conversation.

I put the set top box out of my mind. We were moving on the Saturday. I had bigger things to deal with.

The flat was rapidly emptying. I watched our sofa being hoisted out of the front window and humped onto the van outside. Just behind it, a man was climbing out of a van marked with the cable company's logo. I went out to him.

"Hello. Are you here to collect your set top box?"

"No, mate. I'm upgrading a broadband connection."

"OK. Which address?"

"Right there. Number 51A."

His accent was South African. He was a tall bloke with longish blonde hair.

"Great. I'm in 51B. I'm moving out today. 51A is downstairs from me. You can take the box."

"I can't do that, mate. That's a different team."

I explained my troubles with the box. I was friendly. He agreed to take it. He was sure it would be fine.

Three weeks later, in our new suburban home, I got a call on my mobile. The cable company wanted the box back. I would have to pay them £250 if I didn't return it immediately.

"I've returned it."

"Not according to our records, sir."

"I've returned it. One of your people took it away."

I explained, in detail, what had happened.

"Very good, sir. I'll look into that."

"I consider the matter closed now. Thank you," I said.

A fortnight later I was out at a meeting. My mobile rang. It was the cable company. They wanted their box back.

"OK, listen," I began. "On Saturday 8th September I personally watched one of your employees put the box in his van. It was around midday. He was there to upgrade my downstairs neighbours' broadband connection. They live at number 51A. Their names are Mark Roscoe and Suzanne Campbell. They saw your employee taking the box. Your employee was a tall blonde guy with a South African accent. He assured me that he could take the box away and deal with it".
"Yes, sir. I see."
"So you are accusing me of stealing your box."
"We're not accusing you of stealing it, sir."
"You're saying I've failed to return your property. You're saying there's a piece of your company's property that either is in my possession or perhaps I've had in my possession and got rid of it. Either way, you're saying it's yours and I haven't given it back. So you're saying I stole it."
"Well, not exactly."
"So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to call the police."
"The police?"
"Yes, I'm going to report a theft. I'm going to explain I've been accused of theft by the cable company but that I have witnesses who can report that the real thief is an employee of the cable company with a South African accent and long, blonde hair who was seen taking the stolen goods at a precise time of day. I daresay if the police interview your HR people or look at your records they will identify the thief."
"OK, sir. What I'm going to do is just look into this again and call you back."
"Please do."

Ten minutes later I got a call.

"The matter is now closed, sir."
"Can I have that in writing?"
"Very good, sir."