My computer got a virus, I sent it into the shop to be fixed.
“We’ll,” they said, “have to wipe everything and start over.”
“Ok,” I said, “just back up my internet bookmarks.”
They said sure, but when I got my computer back: no bookmarks.
“What?” I asked.
“Bring it back in,” they said.
They recovered the hard disk or, as far as I was concerned, cast a spell, and gave me back my bookmarks, which turned out not to be my bookmarks, but a collection of random ass bookmarks for websites like 5mins.com, and dolphincrap.com, along with some bondage websites, for maximum embarrassment.
“Not my bookmarks,” I explained.
“What?” Asked the shop.
“NOT MY BOOKMARKS,” I said again.
“Ok, ok, we’ll fix,” said, again, the shop.
Having had my computer for another week, totalling three, I call again. They tell me it’s fixed.
“Your bookmarks,” they say, “we have restored them.”
But this is not true. What they have done is found a file I made about five years ago, containing bookmarks I put in there, which are, in terms of relevance to my life, five years old. They have done, in the three weeks they’ve had my computer, nothing. And they have charged me for work I did.
They either deleted the bookmarks themselves, like fools, or the virus corrupted the bookmarks and there was nothing the shop could have done.
“Look, sorry, there’s nothing we can do,” is one of the things they never said to me.
It looks now like I have a vibrant career ahead of me, working for a computer repair centre.