It takes an awful lot to make me, the woman of the unstoppable happy disposition, grumpy, but I’m afraid I’m verging on it at the moment thanks to it being a terrible night for communication with the outer world here at the Manse.
Our internet, normally pretty peppy (thanks to my Telus friend Rohit on the other side of the world), is in and out tonight, and sometimes down to dial-up speeds. Which is basically making me insane.
Meanwhile, for the past few days our lovely vintage red dial phone – the hot line with which we used to be able to get Khrushchev on the line whenever we needed him and/or there was a threat of worldwide nuclear war – has been on the fritz.
At first I thought it was the weather; when we used the phone there was a lot of crackling on the line, and I thought maybe it was the dampness outside making the wires act up. (The joys of rural life.) But then the phone went completely dead, no dial tone or anything – except that it suddenly rang last night! Not that I could hear the person at the other end when I picked it up, but that suggests to me there’s some life in the old hot line yet. But today, back to no dial tone.
I have examined my trusty (or, actually, not so much) red phone closely and decided it might not be a good sign that some of the wires coming out the back (green, yellow, red and black) are as loose as they are. I bet if a person knew what he or she were doing, that person could take the hot line apart and tighten up those wires (or something) and all would be well. But I am hopeless at things like repairs, and Raymond is in Montreal at the moment.
So: does anyone out there know how to fix a 1960s dial phone? Because lord knows we might need to reach Mr. Khrushchev!