Transmission impossible
Jeremy Clarke
My deadline was past. I could imagine the editor drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk. I had the article all written up on my handsome new laptop computer, however. All I had to do was send it via its WiFi facility, the wireless technology that enables you to log on to the internet without having to find a phone line or plug anything in. And happily there was a ‘WiFi point’ just behind the full orchestra that was welcoming passengers to Dublin airport with a medley of Christmas carols.
The place was heaving. I managed to obtain a seat in the ‘meeting point’, just behind the orchestra, and cranked up the laptop. I’d bought it especially for its WiFi capability and I was excited about using it for the first time. What a wonderful century! Internet! WiFi! Sex toys sold in Boots the chemist! It might be our last, but goodness we’re going out in a high old style.
To the accompaniment of a plangent ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing!’ I tapped at the keys and got the WiFi screen up. My laptop said it had the capability and the desire to connect to the internet via this WiFi point, but I had first to type in a security code. In other words, I must pay for a special WiFi voucher with the code printed on it.
But who to pay? My laptop had no idea. There were no signs anywhere saying ‘Get your WiFi vouchers here, my lucky lads’. I cast anxiously about for an alternative method of sending my article via the internet. ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing!’ was temporarily drowned by an announcement that I must go to Gate A8. I had no time to lose. My only option was to sit at one of the bank of ten pay-as-you-go computers beside the ‘WiFi point’ and copy my article from my laptop on to an email. But first I had to get some euros.
The queue for the ATM resembled a Nuremberg rally. I’d had no sleep the night before, and very little the night before that. I’d been sick on the hard shoulder on the way to the airport. My earlier optimism evaporated. I wanted to lie down on the floor and die. The ATM seemed to be in the wrong job. It treated each request for cash as if it were highly unusual. By the time I reached it, it was having a nervous breakdown. After much whirring, and an agonising hiatus, it recovered sufficiently, however, to push out feebly a 20 euro note. Next, I had to get change. The bank was shut. The woman at the patisserie said she didn’t have any. So did the lad at the bookshop. I finally obtained coins by buying a leprechaun on a key ring. One of the pay-as-you-go computers was mercifully free. One euro bought ten minutes. I sat down and stuffed all my coins in the slot. The machines were very close together. I was rubbing shoulders with my neighbours and had to type with my elbows tucked in. No matter. I was in business. To the tune of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ I began typing. No cursor. My machine wasn’t working. It was vacant because it was broken.
Panic-stricken, I gathered up my pile of belongings from the floor and returned to the ATM for more euros. Instant cash? It was like queuing for an audience with a tribal elder. I petitioned it for another 20 euro note. I obtained change by buying another leprechaun then dashed back to the bank of public computers. One became free. I squeezed in, shoved my change in the slot and began typing furiously. A woman tripped over my hand luggage and fell heavily against my back. Two young Poles at the next screen were swearing angrily. Some complication about a woman who wouldn’t reply to their email. ‘O Come All Ye Faithful!’ was drowned out by the woman telling me once more to go to Gate A8. The faster I typed the more mistakes I made. It was hopeless. My flight was at 10.15. Already it was 10.05.
I finished typing and clicked on the send icon at 10.30. Then I went forlornly upstairs to the departures lounge and found the check-in desk. Was there a later plane I could get on? The check-in woman had some marvellous news, she said. My plane had been unexpectedly delayed by at least an hour. I could relax. Could she see my passport? This request introduced a very new and surprising complication into the situation, however, because my passport wasn’t in any of my pockets and neither was it anywhere in my luggage. ‘I think I’ve lost it, I’m afraid,’ I said.
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