Technology can be a wonderful thing. It allows you to communicate across vast distances, speak to friends all over the globe, watch strangers crossing the street in Times Square, download the latest songs and movies ... and all through a tiddly piece of wire plugged into a hole above the skirting board.

That’s the theory.

A recent change of telephone number involved moving my broadband account. I should have invested in some carrier pigeons instead. My provider, who I will refer to simply as T******, sent me a letter confirming the connection date. Interestingly, they also wrote to say they had cancelled my service. Slightly baffled, I waited to see what would happen. Around came the connection date and lo, I had broadband. The little lights came on but I couldn’t log onto the internet. Better chase *i*****, I thought.

Three hours later, I was developing an intimate knowledge of the **s**** telephone switchboard. I’d spoken to technical support (3 times), customer care (twice), sales (1.5 times), accounts, the hygiene division, catering and the man who directs traffic in the company car park.

Technical support (“press 3 on your keypad”) said the line looked okay from their end.

Billing (“for ***c*** account queries, press 3”) said there was no problem with my account.

Sales (“press option 1 for new sales, press 2 for existing customers”) put the phone down on me.

The Samaritans (“press 4 if you’re trying to deal with ****a**’s broadband service”) suggested I have a gin and tonic and lie down in a darkened room.

Finally, Declan - a shining beacon of sanity in the customer care department - booked technical support to call me in 24 hours. I left it at that and decided to go back to my former life as a cartoonist. Almost - whilst I was waiting I fired off a letter to *****l*’s complaints department and sent a copy to their press office. That made me feel better (“Do you realise that I am a member of Her Majesty’s Press and have valuable cartoons to send all over the world?”).

48 hours later, I still hadn’t heard from technical support, so I gave up. I rang the cancellation service (“press 1 to cancel broadband, 2 for a MAC code and 3 to request a wall to bang your head against”) I got my MAC code and found somebody else to provide broadband.

Somebody smaller, more local, who advertises less, who charges slightly more and who understands what it means when you put the words “customer” and “service” in the same sentence together.

Within three working days the world was back on my computer screen, faster than ever.

And the moral of the story? Well there isn’t one, really. Except that I reckon I’ve expended far more in time and hair loss than I ever saved by going with ******i in the first place. So by all means find the provider with the best deal but then give them a call. Do they sound friendly and kind? Could they could come to love and cherish your custom and not throw you to the switchboard wolves?

Meanwhile, having got on first name terms with so many of T******’s employees, I’ll be miffed if I don’t get invited to their staff Christmas party.

Colin Shelbourn