Bell Email Scam

I am very conscientious about paying my bills as soon as they arrive so I post-date them to be paid on the due date by the bank.  In general, this works very well.  But  for the second month in a row, I received an email saying that Bell had been unable to process my last payment.

Last month I had clicked the link provided in the email and was led to a page asking for a great deal of information including my credit card.  I recognized it immediately as a phishing attempt and called Bell to report it.  After the obligatory wait period, I was connected to agent Tom who assured me that this was indeed a scam and I should disregard it.

Again this month, I received the “Your last payment cannot be processed” email.  Once again, it looked very official and this time the link to My Bell took me to a page that looked exactly as the legitimate site looks including photos and links, most of which worked.  Two blank rectangles eagerly awaited my account name and password but the URL at the top looked a little suspicious so I stopped there and, after the obligatory wait, commenced a chat with Rhoda, this month’s cheery Bell agent.

Once again I provided the appropriate information for her to verify my authenticity and when I explained the situation she agreed that this was a very common scam that I should ignore.  She also asked if I would be willing to forward the offending email to be used as evidence and, after a short waiting period, she was able to provide me with an email address that would lead, I understood, straight to the sleuths at Bell Accounts.  I ended the chat session, assured Rhoda that there was nothing else she could do for me and fired off the email along with the offending email and a screenshot of the purported My Bell page.

Two seconds later I received the message from the ever-vigilant Postmaster informing me that my email could not be delivered.  I shook my head and questioned the authenticity of Rhoda.

I then picked up the phone and, after the obligatory waiting and authentication periods, explained the situation to Camille.  She launched into a long explanation of the scam, etc.  I assured her I knew all about this, and wanted to know if she could provide the CORRECT Bell abuse address.  Obviously unaware of this she offered to find it for me. After yet another obligatory waiting period she cheerily rhymed off not an email address but a website.  When I pointed this out, she assured me that this was where I would be able to be a good citizen and register the email, false My Bell page, etc.

I dutifully went the page only to discover that it contained a long explanation by Bell on what phishing is and how to avoid internet scams. There was NO place to forward suspicious emails or websites.  I sat stunned, staring at this useless screen questioning whether any of the ‘agents’ I had talked with were legit and contemplating what I will do when I receive next month’s email telling me that Bell has been unable to process my latest payment.

The Lions in Winter

In January I spent a week in a London.  But this wasn’t just plain old London; it was London in the harshest winter the UK has known in years; and it was magnificent.  Buildings, trees and bushes were all outlined in pristine white against a clear, dark winter sky; the fairy lights on Harrods illuminated deserted Knightsbridge streets; every Brit we encountered complained of the “Arctic cold” (it was -1°C) and assured us we had arrived “at a very bad time.”

Our first morning, we headed for Trafalgar Square to admire the snow bedecking the bronze manes of its four proud lions.  As always, we felt a swelling of colonial pride at the sight of the flapping red and white flags garlanding Canada House on the west side of the square.  What an architectural gem!   What an impressive address!  What fond memories this imposing building held!

I remember travelling in Europe in the 1960’s when such a journey meant that we were isolated from family and home for weeks or even months at a time.  We wouldn’t dare call or cable home unless it was literally a matter of life and death; European newspapers did not cover Canadian events and CNN had not been invented.  What a joy it was in those days to walk up the steps of Canada House and feel we had come home.  We eagerly collected messages from other travelling friends and letters from family and friends written on onion skin paper and folded origami-style into little pale blue square packages that were impossible to open without rendering at least two of the sentences illegible.  The comfortable Library displayed rows of well-thumbed Canadian papers that would bring us up to date on the latest news (latest meaning what had happened up until a mere two weeks previously since the papers, being shipped by sea were invariably out of date by the time they arrived).   The staff went about their business and smiled indulgently as we took turns reading snippets of  ‘news’ and family highlights out loud to each other.  

In more recent years, before cell phones, iPods and free WIFI, Canada House provided a bank of computers for our use.  Visits to London would be punctuated by frequent stops in Trafalgar Square to check our inbox, whip off an email, catch up on the latest news. 

So it was no surprise last month that I automatically wandered over to the familiar front door of Canada House.  The steps were unshovelled and the door was locked tight.  Recalling previous visits when the building was under repair and a rear entrance had been in use, I worked my way to the back door.  The black wrought iron gate was padlocked shut and squinting through the railings I could just make out the message on a piece of white paper taped to the door providing a cell number for deliveries.  There was no sign of life and no other information. 

I have since learned that the government, reversing its decision to close Canada House, had renovated and opened it during the Olympics.  It has subsequently been closed to compete the work.  Wouldn’t you think, since this project is obviously taking several months, that someone would have thought of preparing an official sign instructing visitors – lonely ex-pats, Canadian travellers in need of help, prospective immigrants – where to find Canadian consular services. 

So I walked wistfully away and paid one more visit to Nelson’s rather cold and surprised feline companions then headed off through the snow to acquaint myself with London in winter.

          Trafalgar Square Lion with Canada House in the background.

  

The Great Snowstorm of 2013

There’s nothing more Canadian than a SNOW DAY!  I woke up early today, excited by the gauze of snow that bandaged my bedroom window and the thought that there would be NO SCHOOL TODAY!  Of course I haven’t ‘gone to school’ either to learn or to teach for ten years but the thrill was still there.

I nestled under my blankets and listened for the school closures on my bedside radio.  I was somewhat disappointed to learn that they no longer read long lists of schools but rather direct eager little eyes to search for their no school today card on line.  The dog and I went out onto the balcony to get a first-hand experience of the depth and feel of the snow; we sniffed the cold air and then wisely turned around and headed back to our respective beds.  I amused myself by planning ways to spend my day:  I’d read a book; I’d clean out the furnace room; I’d make a big bubbling pot of boeuf bourguignon. The silly thing is that since I decide my own working hours I can do any of those things any day I please but they seemed far more inviting today.

But instead I listened to tales of frustrated commuters, flightless airline passengers and frustrated drivers and let my mind wander to the serendipity of previous winter weather disasters. 

• The impromptu pot-luck dinner organized by a fellow graduate student who had phoned a few friends who lived in the neighbourhood but didn’t really know each other.  We all arrived, awkward, our meagre offerings dangling in plastic bags from snow-covered mittens, to be met by the aroma of a roasting goose he had just happened to have on hand!  It was one of the most memorable meals of my life!   

• Seven months pregnant, trudging 2 kilometres through the quickly mounting snow to catch the last London to Toronto train.  After many delays we arrived at Union Station well after midnight.  The next morning I arrived bright and early at the hospital only to discover that my ultra-sound had been postponed since the required the staff couldn’t make it to work ‘because of the weather.’

• The morning I stepped out of my shower to a chorus of “Hi Mum!  We’re home!  Our dorm is closed for the week.”  The great ice storm of 1998 had indeed closed Queens and Alyssa had persuaded all of her out-of-province floor-mates that her mother would be delighted for them to move in.

It’s now past noon; the snow continues to sift down, the dog dozes, I smile quietly, all of the items on my to-day list still untouched and wonder if one day I’ll look back on the Great Snowstorm of 2013 as the occasion on which I finally resurrected my blog.