Deborah Hill Cone
Ijust signed up for a meditation course. I know. It’s such a predictable I’m-turning-50-thisyear thing to do. What next: a tattoo? (A friend: “Quick hint DHC. Get it where the skin remains tight. A sunset over a horizon in the wrong place can look like a nuclear holocaust later in life.”)
Maybe it was because I was so busy being frantically Zen that I didn’t pay much attention when Sky TV rang and said they needed to update our Sky box.
It was only days after it had been replaced — I don’t watch Sky much — when I sat down to watch the final of The Affair, that I realised having a new box meant the technician had wiped everything I’d ever saved (Muddy Waters joined on stage by Keith Richards! Best ever Veep quotes! “Don’t give me that Quaker in a titty bar look”) as well as wiping the series links I had lined up.
Forget calm blue ocean and noticing your out-breath, I was breathing flames.
Don’t the muppets at Sky realise their old arrogant attitude doesn’t cut it anymore? Their technology is outdated but their attitude to us longsuffering customers more so.
I cancelled my Sky sub. Take that. (I just watched Breaking Bad on Lightbox) This was easy, because I had no residual goodwill towards the company. Sky, it seemed to me, for many years had such an icky relationship with successive governments — through effective lobbying, although one had to wonder — it was allowed to monopolistically dominate and extract huge profits from broadcasting sport, whilst barely investing anything in local journalism or non-sports-related content.
Even when the writing was on the wall, Sky has continued to force