Fixing dead phone

I located a cell phone repairer this weekend, in a bid to resuscitate my dead toilet phone.

Yes, I acknowledge, I left it a bit late for this rescue attempt, but I had to factor in some ‘glaring that the useless electrical fucker’ time, as well as ‘contemplating driving over the failed electrical fucker repeatedly’ time. This was, indeed, time consuming, and led to more corrosion than if I had sought to fix the phone a few days after I wrecked it.

Ah well, live and learn. I regret nothing. Except allowing my mother to cut my fringe as a kid, and the ‘hairstyle’ she allowed the hairdresser to wreak upon me when I was 8.

So I entered the cell phone repair place on Saturday, located in a deteriorating building in a deteriorating part of town where an ex-boyfriend operated his own business, once upon a time.

I produced the toilet phone and handed it to the assistant:

Me: My phone won’t work. It…er… is water damaged.

Shop Assistant (SA): * blank stare, keeps still*

Me: OK, OK, I dropped it in the toilet.

SA: *blank stare, writes something down*


SA: *rubs his nose, writes something down*

Me: Sooooooo, do you think you can fix it?

SA: I’d say there is a 95% chance that we can fix it.

By this point I felt horribly judged but hopeful.  A peal of laughter by the Canadian woman standing next to me at the counter led me to, unfortunately, make eye contact with her.

Canadian Woman (CW): Ha ha, sorry about your phone. Your kid?

Me: No. ME.

I need a kid to blame things on. It doesn’t help that I regularly do things that kids do, like cry when I don’t have chocolate and pat my cat with a hand sticky from Coke that I spilt down my chest when attempting to drink it like a grown up.

If I had a kid, I could have laughed in a knowing way with the Canadian women and shared stories about pooh and vomit and formula feeds with her, all the while bonding with her in the knowledge that we were both members of that awesomest non-secret society, like, everrrrrrrrr.

Then I could have killed myself because my life was that fucking dull.

Anyway, I’m told my phone was ‘badly corroded’ and it’s  unclear if it will make it. So much for 95%.

I’m warming up my car for the driving over the fucking failed electrical device that will take place later.


5 Responses to Fixing dead phone

  1. Louisa says:

    Apparently this blaming on the kids thing only works till they morph into teenagers anyway – then they blame you!

  2. dbawiw says:

    For sure, Louisa. That’s why I need to get as much blaming in now as possible. I blame YOUR kid for my broken phone, yessiree!

  3. Charmskool says:

    You are clearly not a blonde. If I was to do such a thing people would grin and say “what can you expect? she’s a blonde” Even if it WAS my kid’s fault.

  4. Tamara says:

    Those blank stares… I swear that’s how you get a customer service job in this country…

    “Give me your best blank stare.”

    *crickets chirp, tumbleweeds blow*

    “Perfect – you’re hired.”

  5. Don't Believe a Word I Write says:

    And here’s the update, Charm and Tamara.
    That 95% chance of successfully fixing my phone was bollocks. I received the following sorry SMS confirmation of the phone’s demise: “Unfortunately we cannot repair your cellphone. You may collect.”

    I *may* be able to collect but I certainly ain’t collecting R200.

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