Steady on, Grandad. You'll be using your television remote control next!" This cheeky response came from my 13-year-old grandson when it was revealed I was considering turning to Broadband.

My determination to prove I had advanced beyond the cat's whisker era of wireless communications made me press on. No-one could describe me as an Internet addict or a surfing geek, but family pride and standards must be maintained.

But pride comes at a price. It was bad enough searching for a company whose services satisfied personal preferences - unlimited phone calls here and abroad - without being told that nothing would happen for about 15 working days. On top of this was the chore of having to make numerous calls at premium rates to find out what was happening after the 15 days had elapsed.

Each time I tried to activate the phone option by following the instructions provided on an idiot-proof disk, the operation aborted because the Broadband connection had not been made. The phone conversations - exchanged only after being forced to listen to nondescript singers belting out nondescript songs, interspersed with a disembodied voice assuring me I was important and would be answered shortly - produced various dates for the link-up. All were fruitless.

Eventually I got annoyed ("Surely not," I hear you say) and, climbing on to my high horse, demanded to speak to someone in authority'. After more nauseating music, a honey-voiced woman from the customer services department came on, a fail-safe way of calming the male's troubled breast if not solving his problem.

It was all BT's fault, she said, a hint of betrayed trust in her voice. BT was responsible for carrying out the link-up. The mistake and consequent delay was at their door, a clerical error, probably generated by over-reliance on an unforgiving computer programme. My application for the service had travelled along so many wires or digital systems that a fault had occurred and the application had cancelled itself. Her apology for the shortcomings of those outside her control was accepted, albeit reluctantly.

There would now be a further delay of . . .

I could expect to link up on . . .

Meanwhile, let's have a look at that TV remote control.

Have you noticed how many posters advertising long-gone events adorn boards, lampposts, trees and fences? The other day, I saw two calling country lovers to oppose the Hunting Bill at a rally in London held a couple of years back, an autumn ball in October 2006, and another offering a weaving and basket-making course at a country house - last Easter.

There is probably provision in the Litter Act demanding such notices be removed within a certain time. But like so many laws, enforcing it loses out as too few coppers chase too many villains.

And what about those bus adverts?

As buses queued in the Magdalen Bridge roadworks, I spotted two ancient posters covering the offside flanks of Oxford Bus Company vehicles.

One was for a Mainly Mozart series of concerts that ended more than a month ago, and the other for the Oxford Playhouse pantomime, Dick Whittington, a show now consigned to history.

It pays to advertise, but . . .

Finally, here's something spotted in a Cowley Road shop window: Small room available for rent. Would suit vertically challenged man or someone prepared to sleep standing up.' And April 1 is still 16 days away.