OLD fashioned deep sea divers relied on their air supply being pumped through a rubber tube by a chap on the deck of the trawler above.

This tenuous link with survival and the possibility that something could go wrong meant it was great fare for black and white Hollywood drama.

You must have seen the films. Inevitably, the rubber tube springs a leak or is cut by a submerged cargo hatch or a shark or a baddie with a knife. Or the chap on deck doing the pumping has a heart attack or is rendered unconscious by a member of a rival salvage gang.

OO-er, will the hero survive? Or will that rubber octopus prove his nemesis?

Well, this week someone metaphorically cut my rubber tube.

It all started when I had trouble with my internet connection: it was slow, haphazard, inconsistent. Perhaps I had deleted a crucial application by mistake or had been infiltrated by a virus deadlier than a rubber octopus.

So I did what I usually do: I unplugged and disconnected everything and left it. By the morning, I told myself, everything would be fine. Perhaps I expected the computer fairy to sneak into my office and fix the problem with her magic screwdriver. Or is that Dr Who?

Anyway, come the dawn, I reconnected everything and switched on and … the problem was worse. Now I couldn’t get any kind of connection with the internet on either of my computers. So I did what I usually do next in such situations: I panicked.

An internet connection is crucial to my life. My work depends on it and I can’t remember the last time I bought a stamp or checked a dictionary or encyclopedia or went to the library to undertake research.

I mean, who in their right mind, given the choice, would send a message in an envelope to someone two days away by post (and wait two days for the reply) when you can email them and get an instant response?

Technology has changed many things including the way I conduct my life. The loss of the world wide web was immense. You could have called me Titanic and hit me with an iceberg. I was sunk.

Get a grip, I told myself. Perhaps one of my many safety devices had been to blame?

I rebooted both computers from scratch, back to their original settings. I may have lost the odd novel or two, but who cares. I took a deep breath and tried again. Still no connection.

Finally, with sinking heart, I telephoned Virgin. At least I could tell their expert I had tried everything. And I got a recorded message from a disjointed mechanical voice that said: “Virgin are upgrading your Broadband which will be back online at 4.50pm.”

What? All that for nothing!

This filled with me a mixture of anger (why hadn’t they told me?), relief (so it’s not my fault) and panic (but what if it is?) and my switch-on at five that evening was more dramatic than lighting the Olympic flame.

My wife Maria waited down the corridor.

“Well?” she said, from a safe distance.

“I don’t like to be too positive about this, but it seems to be working.”

“Thank God, for that.”

Not that Maria ever uses a computer but she knew life would become unbearable if I couldn’t get my daily fix.

This glitch showed, yet again, how much we rely on technology and how much I panic when its benefits are withdrawn, even for a short while.

Give me the option of wrestling a rubber octopus any day. At least, that way I won’t be the sucker.