I have been incredibly calm for someone whose Macbook blew up a week ago. Just like that, a puff of smoke, a dark screen and a fried motherboard.
Two weeks after the warrantee expired.
I panicked in a quiet way which meant I was in my car within ten seconds, racing to the iStore, barging in, heart beating like crazy, help help this is a disaster, help.
I thought of course they would help me because Macbooks don’t just fry when they are a year old.
They do, because it was my second one to fry.
The store calmed me down.
We’ll sort it out, they said.
Believe in us, they said.
We’ll get back to you, they said.
No problem, they said.
The Mac store is exactly like that difficult guy who says he’ll call tomorrow and calls a week later as if nothing is wrong.
It’s taken over a week to hear from the store and only then because I, I dear reader, followed up. It’s been a series of disasters and miscommunication. And finally they quoted the most insane price to fix it and I said no way and went mad and exploded and have since been engaged in battle.
I have taken to social media. I have fired off a billion emails. And through this I have found a man at the iStore who is taking control. Who has told me, albeit telephonically, that this is a problem with the machine and not the user. Who stayed calm when I told him that I look after my Mac, that I’ve never spilled coffee or wine over it, that I have never taken it into the bath or the shower, that I have never had online sex with it, never watched porn, never done anything except write stories about love, romance and commitment…
It’s not okay.
The difficult guy should have fixed this.
I mean, the Mac store should have fixed this.
I mean, for goodness sake, PLEASE FIX EVERYTHING.
They never work properly.