I don’t like ticking boxes. Which is why I only do so when forced. Which is all the time. You can’t so much as register with a dentist without telling their questionnaire that you are of no denomination. What does it matter? Will I be put through Dustin Hoffman’s hell?
Come to think of it… No, let’s change the subject. I don’t know what it’s like in the States or indeed anywhere outside the UK but here you can’t even pay your electricity bill (over the phone) without being asked ‘security’ questions. Whose security? Mine? Surely not. The whole world and its Amazon knows by now not only my mother’s maiden name, the first school I went to, my birth date, my address, what I had for dinner last night, not to forget those last three digits on the back of my debit card. I love it, and it’s a pet hate of mine: Some company calls me; remember: Calls me. And, for my ‘security’ will ask me all sorts BEFORE telling me what they are on about. Are these people ticking ok? Once upon a time my naive little self gave truthful answers. No more. Mother’s maiden name: Sure. Make it up. Preferably something which takes forever to spell. The one bastard you can’t lie about is your birth date. Which is fine. One has lived. And youngsters who could be my sons will learn that someone who could be their mother is not past it. So far none of them have asked me to adopt them but it’ll be only a matter of time. The Angel reckons that I am the only person in the whole wide world who can make call center stuff laugh, even in India. Which, no doubt, accounts for them calling me back. Again and again and again. Beware the camel’s back. The drop that will make the barrel overflow.
And here is one for Phil. As 2012 new tech lingo slips in: A BeetOven – before it implodes – is when you are stuck in the queue of a call center, waiting, and they play you Vivaldi’s Four Seasons – only to be answered till you are well into Autumn. If I had anything to do with Vivaldi’s Estate I’d sue for damages. Big time. What once was a pleasure is now a pain.