Back in the early 1980s, I was a telecommunications tech in Pinetown, South Africa. My job? To swoop in and rescue people with malfunctioning phones.
One fateful day, a call came in complaining that the lines at a local firm were throwing a daily tantrum at 10:00 am. I rushed there, arriving at 11:00-ish to meet a receptionist with tales of woe. Little did I know, a storm was brewing in the form of an irate director.
As we discussed the issue, the boss stormed in, unleashing a torrent of anger and colourful language. Amid the chaos, I promised that I would be back by 9:45 the next day.
The following morning at 9:45 sharp, I confidently strode in, prepared to unveil my telecom wizardry. The director, true to form, resumed his tirade from the back room. Ignoring the commotion, I awaited the magic hour.
At precisely 10:00 am, half of the telephone lines waved a white flag of surrender. I swiftly investigated, finding myself in the “dedicated” PABX (Private Automatic Branch Exchange) room — a room that, as I soon discovered, moonlighted as a storage space amongst other jobs.
Lo and behold, the culprit of this daily telephonic rebellion was none other than the office tea lady. She had unplugged the phantom equipment to power up the kettle for her morning tea ritual. The tea, I might add, was for the director. The irony was too delicious to resist.
Summoning the director with a triumphant bang on his door, I led him to the scene of the crime. Pointing at the kettle, I declared, “That’s why your phones don’t work.” Without another word, I left him to digest the bitter truth. The look on his face was indescribable.
Lesson learned: sometimes, the most sophisticated problems have the simplest solutions, and in this case, it boiled down to a tea-related power struggle.
