The cable guy came, all wet and hot in a Virgin sweatshirt, drilled a hole through the wall, stuck a wire through it and connected it outside, terminated it with a neat white box on the wall, cabled from there to my computer, faffed about a bit with a new ‘modem’ and an even newer ‘router’ and there I was, surfing along the superhighway at just a tad under 50bps, smooth as smooth.
It’s all rather an anticlimax, really.
Pending a sufficiently long ethernet cable, Graham is tuned in on the wireless side of the box, and getting a perfectly acceptable 16bps.
I know that in some places 50bps is nothing so very special but here in our little valley it’s a great leap into the 21st century. We have lift-off. 50bps is more than fast enough to handle anything we might want to do together, at the same time, including the luxury of internet radio while I work. Factor in unlimited bandwidth and web storage space and we’re home and dry.
So all I have to do now is get keyed into Virgin, and keyed out of BT. The bottom line price is almost exactly the same so I’m well content.
A dangerous situation, in truth. I’m sure there’s an adage somewhere in the gobbets of information that clutter my brain, warning of the dangers of contented poets.
