He's On The Phone: Dealing with Telefonica

The mobile rang three times. A four-figure number. Some sort of spam call, I thought. After the third time of calling and ignoring it, I thought again. Erm, maybe it was Telefonica. I had, after all, been asked to take a call from them.

The German neighbours. Needed to sort out a line and internet and all that. Could Telefonica call me so that I could pass on some info? Yes. But don't Telefonica have a German helpline? Yes. But it's not so easy. It never is, to be honest. Just having a German mobile probably doesn't make it any easier. Nor does Telefonica ringing Germany, to a relative, the one who had set this all in motion in the first place.

I do hope you're following all this, because I got lost with it well before the four-figure number started appearing on my mobile. When the number rang again, I relented, and answered. Half fearing not hearing anything - in good spam style - I was relieved when a voice started speaking - in German. Do I speak German, came the question. A bit, I responded, clearly unconvincingly. I can do German, but over a phone I would rather not. "English?" This was more like it. I didn't venture to suggest Spanish, and so waited to be transferred.

What I had thought they wanted to know, in order to get the neighbours kitted out in a Telefonica style, seemed straightforward enough. Confirmation of address, tax number, bank details. We never got past the address. Indeed, it took an inordinate length of time to do the first of these - the address.

"I can't find it," said the Telefonica-ist. The address, that is. So I repeated it. Twice more, once in Catalan. No, still couldn't find it. The street, it was suggested, was in Cala Ratjada. No, I responded, it is in Playa de Muro. There may be a street with the same name in Cala Ratjada, but there is definitely one in Playa de Muro. I am now standing on it, I explained, having walked for some distance while waving my arm around in good Spanish fashion while using a mobile. "This is your street?" asked the Telefonica-ist. "No, no, it's not my street. I just live next to it." "Next to it? Can you give me the number?" "A number? What of? A telephone, or a house?" "Which is your house?" "Sorry, what do you mean, which is my house?" "Your house is in the same street." "No, my house is in a different street." "It's next to the house where you want the phone line." "No, it's not next exactly. Near. And it's not me who wants the line. It's the neighbours, the ones you have the name for." "Oh. But can you give me your address?" "Why do you want my address? I'm not the one who wants the line." "It's not for you?" "No, no, it's for the neighbours. The ones you have the name for." "Ah yes. Can you give me the name of the street?" "I've given you the name of the street, but here it is again." "Sorry, I can't find the street." "You can't find it! It's been here for... for at least 40 years." "Can you spell it?" "Yes, I can spell it, thank you." "Oh, I still can't find it. Maybe if you tell me the name of the street in Catalan?" "I told you that before, but ok. Here it is." "Ah, ok, now I've found it." "Good. Do you want the other information? The bank details?" "No, we'll ring in a couple of days."

God forbid.

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