Arrgh! To RSVP, I need my ID and password ASAP!
When the invitation arrived by email, I was thrilled to bits. ‘You are invited to the easy Booking Association’s Annual Ball,’ it read. ‘CONFIRM PASSWORD TO RSVP.’
If I ever had a password, I’d forgotten it, so I clicked on the arrow button in the box that asked: ‘ FORGOTTEN YOUR PASSWORD?’
Up came a message saying ‘REGISTER’. I could remember my email, so I easily managed to fill in the first box. I was feeling on top of things. But then the next box said ‘ PASSWORD’. Underneath, in little letters it added, ‘Forgotten Your Password?’, so I clicked that and was immediately sent back to the beginning: ‘CONFIRM PASSWORD TO RSVP.’
As so often with the internet, I felt like Alice in Wonderland, trapped in her rabbit-hole, confronted by any number of strident and increasingly nonsensical demands, each leading on to another question even more urgent.
After trying to work out which of nine windows had a traffic light in them, and thereby assuring them that I was not a robot, I was asked to provide my grandmother’s maiden name, my postcode, my passport number and my favourite football team. After half an hour, I had managed to register, and after a further 20 minutes, I was proud to have successfully replied ‘ YES’ to the easy Booking Association’s Annual Ball.
At this point, they asked me if I’d prefer to collect my ticket, print it out or have it posted. After providing them with my date of birth, my national insurance number and the name of the Prime Minister, I clicked on ‘COLLECT AT VENUE’. At last, I was nearing the end!
Then a new question popped up — or, rather, an old one: ‘PASSWORD?’
It was now so long since I applied for a new password that I had forgotten what it was, so I reluctantly clicked on ‘FORGOTTEN YOUR PASSWORD?’ and ran through the whole process again.
So, a fortnight later, I eventually arrived at the easy Booking Association’s Annual Ball, feeling a sense of relief.
In the entrance hall, there was a sign saying ‘ TICKET COLLECTION’, so I strode over to the desk with a spring in my step. ‘name?’ said the man at the desk. I told him and he tapped it into his computer. ‘Postcode? email? Mobile?’ With a sigh, I provided all these pieces of information, and then held out my hand for the ticket. ‘Bear with me,’ he said, as he stared at his screen for two or three minutes. Then he continued: ‘Place of Birth? national insurance number? house number? Vehicle registration number? name of grandmother’s first pet?’ ‘GCSE grades? Favourite film? Ideal dinner party companions in order of preference? Role played in first school nativity? hopes for the future? name of the Queen’s eldest grandchild? Tip to win the 4.45 at newmarket?’ I must admit that by now I was beginning to grow a little impatient. Behind me, a long queue had been forming. A hundred or more of my fellow guests were busy searching through their bags for their passports, birth certificates, driving licences and photo IDs. Others were grappling with mobile printers and scanners. At one point, I overheard the woman behind me say: ‘ I’m worried that I won’t be able remember the last prime minister but three.’ At last, after I had provided the maiden name of the grandmother of my first pet, the man at the reception desk handed me my ticket.
He THEN asked me to look in on the courtesy desk in the next room. ‘hello there! Welcome to the easy Booking Association’s Annual Ball!’ said the lady, with a smile. ‘And how are you today?’
‘I’m very . . .’ I began, but before I could finish she said, ‘ Bear with me!’ Then I had to wait while she stared at her screen.
‘I’m very well,’ I said, when she finally looked back at me.
‘Very . . . well . . .’ she typed. ‘ And how do you rate our performance today in terms of . . . efficiency? Friendliness? Service? Good value? how did we do? We appreciate your feedback!’
‘Well . . .’ I began, ‘I think perhaps you could cut down on the . . .’
‘Bear with me,’ she said. ‘First, could I have your password?’ I paused and looked blank. ‘ Forgotten your password?’ she continued.