An ode to the humble paper clip.

THE SEYSHANK REDEMPTION - DAYS #7 AND #8

I was thinking that I’d had to give day seven a miss, as there was really not a lot to report, and to be honest it is starting to get pretty boring. And I’m sure I’ve been boring you anyway with obscure meanderings about evolution and psychology.

I’m craving things but I don’t know what I’m craving. It’s just such a pain being cooped up for 23 hours a day. I definitely crave nice food, a cold beer and a gin and tonic. (Or several.) And of course Bridget, my family and friends.

Anyhow it all kicked off yesterday (as I write this at the end of day eight) when the wi-fi crashed. The inmates quickly checked with each other that it wasn’t just them; and established from the staff that it was ‘the whole area’. A sweep of the arm seemed to indicate half the island was down. We were assured that Cable & Wireless were working on it.

The afternoon passed and I suddenly had a whole new fear to deal with. FOMO. Not only was I in quarantine; but now I had no social media, no internet, no Netflix. I calmed myself; it would sort itself out soon. Stop being such a wuss I told myself.

However, there were calls I needed to make. I was looking forward to a Zoom catch up with Bridget and friends arranged for the evening. There was the office. I started to get a strange itchy feeling. I’ve never gone wi-fi cold turkey before.

After a while I went downstairs to check if there was an update. Nope, no progress. I went to the yard and occupied myself by powering round, doing my 10,000 steps, listening to one of my downloaded Spotify playlists; my selection of Vietnam 60s GI music. My mind wandered as aI listened to Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Stones and The Doors. Barry McGuire warned of the apocalypse - wholly appropriate for my mood.

The eastern world, it is explodin', Violence flarin', bullets loadin', You're old enough to kill but not for votin', You don't believe in war, but what's that gun you're totin', And even the Jordan river has bodies floatin', But you tell me over and over and over again my friend, Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.

By evening I was starting to get the shakes. My appointment for some Friday evening fun looked like it was going the way of the dodo (which coincidentally used to live not too far from here) and I wanted to call Bridget - as well as one of my sons; who’d had a job interview during the day. I wasn’t quite curled up on the bed in a foetal position, but it was getting close to that.

I wondered. I’m not strictly a customer of the hotel - and I don’t think I’m legally a ‘prisoner’ - but nevertheless I felt I had a right to make a complaint? My human rights were being infringed? I also had to get word out to the outside world of my predicament. So I charged downstairs and started to kick up a bit of stink. (Those that know me well, know that I have a bit of an ‘issue’ with authority.)

By insisting I was allowed to borrow a nurse’s mobile, I was able to call a Seychellois friend who lived across the road, and was told the internet had been working perfectly all day. Ah, hah!! Had I been sold a pup? What was all this nonsense about the ‘whole area’ being down? 

Other inmates had joked that the reason the wi-fi was off was because the hotel was going bust and they hadn’t paid their bills. Were they serious? I complained loudly, but the staff were clearly used to upset quarantinis - and I might as well been howling at the moon for all they cared.

I went back to my room, tail between my legs, and off to bed.

The next morning I decided action was required. I needed a plan. The inmates who hung around the gazebo warned me darkly that we’d be out of internet all weekend if it wasn’t fixed - as it was the weekend. That was a fate I really couldn’t contemplate. FOMO to the power of ten.

(By the way, I’ve heard of these digital-detox holidays people go on. Really? Is that a serious thing? As you might have guessed, not for me.)

Anyhow, I decided it was time to be bold and break some rules. I contacted my ‘man on the outside’, Phil, and asked him to purchase a local SIM card for me. To bring it to the hotel security gate with my name and room number on it. I then told the head guy that I insisted that I be allowed to collect this SIM. I didn’t quite tell him it was a life or death matter - but I put it up there at almost that level, with all sorts of vague assertions as to the terrible things that would happen to me if I couldn’t get onto the interweb.

The plan worked. Within an hour there was a knock on my door, and an envelope with, sweet Jesus, a SIM card in it! Like a junkie desperate for a hit I tore open the envelope and took out the SIM. Now, to get it into my iPhone.

Ah. I need a pin ‘thing’. Or a paper clip. No, dammit, I didn’t have one. I tried my nail scissors. No - too fat, A pen? Nope. A plastic fork. No good either. Arg. What can I do? 

I went down to reception. I was all sweetness and light. Could I possibly borrow a paper-clip? “No, sir, we don’t have one. Try the office.” 

I went to the office. “A paper-clip, please?” No, they didn’t have such a thing.

I took a deep breath and counted to five. OK, how about a pin, or small bit of wire? Maybe there’s something in the kitchen? No, sir. The kitchen is closed. We don’t have anything.

Nothing!? In this 300-room huge hotel are you really telling me that there isn’t a single paper-clip in the whole place? I felt a massive Basil Fawlty moment coming on. I laughed. You have to be kidding me right?

The boss-man was inscrutable. He’d obviously seen this type of behaviour before; the last time he told a quarantini that paper-clips did not exist at the Berjaya Beau Vallon. “No sir, I’m sorry.” 

I walked away in disgust, probably saying all sorts things I shouldn’t. My fellow inmates were my last hope. Surely one of them would have a paper-clip? I headed to the gazebo, where they had been looking on, entertained by my ruckus with the boss-man. Did anyone have a paper-clip? Was I going to have to barter the three oranges I’d been saving up for one? And at last, a wonderfully kind gentleman offered to loan me one; and he didn’t even want an orange. Success!

Before I headed back to my room one of the inmates sidled up to me and advised that he heard the guards talking in Creole, and they had said that the soldiers better keep an eye on me, as it looked like I might try to escape. He smiled. I’m not quite sure if he was joking. The soldiers all carried heavy machine guns - I decided I’d better calm down for the rest of my stay.

So the story has a happy ending. The SIM worked and my mobile took a massive hit of 100 emails and another 60 or so WhatsApp messages in a matter of seconds. I was back in the saddle; back in touch with the world and not feeling quite as out of control.

However, perhaps the moral of this story is that I need to take a step back and think about my dependence on the internet and being connected? Maybe I do need one of those digi-detox holidays after all?

“Technology can be our best friend, and technology can also be the biggest party pooper of our lives. It interrupts our own story, interrupts our ability to have a thought or a daydream, to imagine something wonderful, because we're too busy bridging the walk from the cafeteria back to the office on the cell phone." Steven Spielberg

Food for thought. (I'm also acutely aware; as my friends have pointed out to me, that my problems are very much first-world problems.)

Will write again if there is anything of interest. Only six more days.

Note: For the first 69 working days of lockdown, I sent an all-staff 'Good morning' email to my 90 Union colleagues. I then paused. This is an edited version of my 'good morning' message on working day #123 of lockdown; whilst in quarantine in the Seychelles, due to a family emergency. I have published other emails on Linkedin, should you be interested.