Fibre to the Premise

I had good intentions when it came to trying to document anything slightly interesting that could happen yesterday. About the only notable event to record was the arrival of the NBN technician who came to upgrade my fibre to the curb connection to a fibre to the premise one.

This upgrade has been available to me for a while now, but much to the despair of my twenty-year-old self, I never bothered to request it because the inconvenience of a few hours without internet didn't seem to justify the interruption to my schedule. The promise of a $5 discount for the next six months eventually got me to commit, and the technician arrived just after 8am to install the new box and drill a hole in my uninsulated wall.

Was this a Bradism, I seriously pondered, taking in the array of ports that occupy the corner of my living room behind our last remaining recliner. Perhaps I could capture this for posterity: one brace of power-points, a TV aerial (not used since the fourth innings got interesting during the cricket back in January), an FTTC port, and a brace of ethernet ports that go up to my study (I only needed one, but the cable guy misunderstood me and installed two and because he had to mess around in the roof for a few hours, I didn't correct him). And now an NBN FTTP box joined them. When I'm eighty, would I remember fondly that collection of infrastructure and revel in the nostalgia of trivialness?

I probably would have posted it, but I couldn't think of a pun to use as a title. Upon review, it does seem like a play on words is required for 90% of my entries lately that aren't photos.

Today I had my follow-up gastroenterology appointment where I would get an update on my eternal quest to try and reduce my lower back pain. It turned out the biopsy of my colon did reveal something of note: intraepithelial lymphocytosis. It's an inflammatory symptom that typically affects senior citizens. Well, I'd happily choose that over anything related to cancer. The doctor offered me a couple of options to address it. And that is how I spent hundreds of dollars on a GP, two specialist appointments, bowel prep, jelly, a hospital admission, and anaesthetist, to end up with a prescription for Metamucil. So much for a journal entry that wasn't a reminder of aging.

After work tonight, I drove to the shops, bought a big tub of the orange flavour, and drove home. And that makes today the second day in a row that I got fibre to the premise.