My music, emails, TV, news and recipes are delivered by the use of all the www’s. My recent experience with Telstra, however, had me appreciating the serious withdrawals junkies must go through when weaned of their favourite fix.

For one reason or another I had to change internet providers. Living in Albion Park, the basket case of the Illawarra when it comes to broadband, I was left with Hobson’s choice - Telstra or zilch.

I made my application and, after an hour, I was assured that my internet connection was a given.

“Great,’’ I said, “Hook her up, and throw in a T-box for good measure.”

The next day I was informed there was a problem with my application, some details were not recorded.

A quick correction and all would be well, or so I thought. Five days later, in a crowded restaurant, I received a mobile call from a man who spoke with a Spike Milligan Indian accent. I had no idea what he was saying. I admit his English was better than my Hindu, but I reckon it was a close call.

Days later I inquired as to where my state-of-the-art broadband was. For 25 minutes I waited for a voice on the other end. Then, after a quick 35 minutes checking, I was told that I had to establish proof of residence, and that I would not be able to keep my existing number. This was apparently the phone conversation with my Indian friend.

Why, I exclaimed, I have lived in the house for more than 20 years, the line in is a Telstra line, I have Telstra accounts at my office, I use a Telstra tablet.

“So if I disconnect the existing line, would this speed things up?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, that would solve our problem.’’

Great, I disconnect the line, and wait and wait and wait. Now I have no phone, no alarm system, no internet, nothing and the withdrawal symptoms start.

Three days later, another call to Telstra, another “your call is important to us”, another 18 minutes waiting for a voice at the other end, another 35 minutes talking on line.

‘‘Yes, our records show you are connected and you are part of the great Telstra network.’’

“Funny,’’ says I, ‘‘cause I cannot make a call and nobody can call me.’’

“Sir your phone must be at fault because the line is connected and no fault is showing at our end.”

Turns out it was their problem, and the internet will be up and running in four-five days.

Nothing happens, I lose patience, and am now regularly ringing the Indian branch of Telstra. I keep receiving assurances that something will be done, but nothing is.

Four weeks pass. I make my daily call and am passed onto a Paul, who listens patiently, does some investigation and miraculously connects me to the net.

I feel as if I have communicated with half of the Indian population. I have spoken to Raj, Aria, Yamini, Deepti, Babu, a Mike in Australia, and countless other ones I could not understand.

I have spent more than eight hours on the line waiting, talking, pleading, crying and swearing.

It has taken four weeks, in which time I have been reduced to a muttering, half-crazed, internet-deprived wreck.

Sometimes you really have to wonder if this digital age is worth the angst, or is it just Telstra?

Graeme Morrison is a connoisseur of fine wine and food, a gadget junkie and practices law as a sideline.