The Pink Zebra

How our internet went down for a week and it mildly impacted my life.

The Pink Zebra (bicycle at centre) in a Playa dust storm.

I wrote this week’s offering last night in my head as I fell asleep.

I called it “The Pink Zebra” in honour of my old bicycle, of the same name. It was a yellow mountain bike onto which, the week before Burning Man in August 2008, I laboriously grafted stripes in pink duct tape (including on each spoke, you heard me) and the words “pink zebra” in little pieces of ripped up tape across the frame.

It was a trash heap stunning masterpiece, as you can see, and served me faithfully for years after that.

At Burning Man and beyond, shipped across the Atlantic to London, where I fannied about on it, from pub to library and back again, from Borough to Holborn, Highgate to Finsbury Park, always on the Pink Zebra — until the sad, sad day some paramecium brain stole it.

I consoled myself with the thought that maybe they just had really refined taste, a hankering for authentic Burning Man memorabilia. Sometimes I search the internet to see if a vintage Burning Man bicycle is on offer on eBay, somewhere out there, with that unmistakeable Pink Zebra je ne sais quoi.

But alas.

In happier times, with the Pink Zebra by my side strapped in the trailer.

Anyway, as I say, I woke up this morning with this week’s newsletter in my head, named and ready to go but sadly, no idea what the Pink Zebra had to do with it. I get such brilliant ideas right before I fall asleep but, often, it’s that kind of dreamscape brilliance where it falls apart just when you try and look at it a bit more closely. Oh well. If you ever see someone riding a bike with pink duct-taped stripes, maybe get in touch?

The thing I actually wanted to write about was the fact that our internet is down.

Our internet is down.

It has been down for many days. Joel is beside himself.

He paces. He fumes. He checks our service provider’s web page for updates every five minutes.

“They’re applying for traffic permits.”

“It’s down in all of Surrey (we don’t live in Surrey).”

“Traffic permits granted for Monday 30th (that’s in like a week).”

“Hoping to have an ETA by the end of today.”

“Estimate all customers will be back online by end of day on the 31st.”

“(On the 31st) Engineers have identified a new cause of the problem. We are now working on developing a new fix plan.”

Isn’t that brilliant? They are working on developing a new Fix Plan. It’s beautiful, masterful. I’ve never read anything more meaningless in my life.

Where I am relatively stoic in the face of an internet drought, Joel tethers with single-minded intensity, like a junkie, balancing his phone on a curtain rail at the back of the house. (We live in a valley, shaded by tall trees. Lovely! Also: a 4G dead zone.)

He is, after all, a millennial of a more sprightly vintage than your geriatric narrator and doesn’t really remember not having internet on tap. His job, really his entire being, is written in code. Super fast broadband is his lifeblood. Take that away and, well.

It’s been a long week.

Or has it?

I would say, actually it’s been an uncommonly fun week.

Because the thing is (and boy oh boy is he going to shit crowbars when he reads this!) I am kind of, quietly, actually quite happy without internet. Without internet, phones don’t update. There is less pointless¹ scrolling, less frequent notifications. The phone screen is not out at the dinner table. There is actual engagement. We have nice conversations and laugh and joke. Life is, all things considered, pretty good.

I harness hobbies and venture out to a knitting group! I host mates round in the guise of a book club (actually to eat cheese and drink wine). I unburden myself about some worries I had with village life after a country music festival in the village last summer was patronised by a horde of Confederate-flag waving attendees. One of my mates is suitably appalled at this and vows to adopt the “White Supremacists Not Welcome” cause with the local councillor, which warms my heart immensely. Joel rallies for the wine but remains largely fractious (I dub him Lord Grumpypants, which surprisingly does little to lighten his mood).

He needs a project. A new pair of boots arrive for me in the post (and, oh they are lovely things, thank you William Lennon). He spends many minutes lacing, re-lacing and then optimally re-lacing them. There are, it turns out, as many different ways of tying a shoelace as there are types of shoes.

I suggest we get out of the house.