My conspiracy theory is that new technology boffins are pursuing a vendetta against wrinklies.
No sooner do we manage to claw oorsellies up to mastering the basics of the online world, than they go and change something – or upgrade, as they put it – then we’re back to bewildered square one. And, when we get in a pickle, no amount of searching will reveal a number to speak to a human helper.
I know I’m not alone. Loadsa pals, like me, end up throwing themsellies at the mercy of their sons or daughters, all of whom appear to consider their parents technological numpties. Okey-dokey. But maybe we’ll be clever enough to live until we’re burdens to the lot of you!
Crucially, making mistakes on the computer can cause major complications further doon that ruddy ethereal line. Indeed, t’was ever thus.
Back in the mists of time, when the EE first got computers, we’d a facility to send individual messages, departmental or all-office ones. One morning, a new recruit who’d just spent an eventful evening or night(?) with the Romeo of the place, messaged him how good it had been and, well… more. Only she pushed the “all-office” button.
As the all-office gasps reached a bit of a crescendo, my boss was before me, hissing: “Deal with that!”
‘Cancel. Try again’
My major online botheration recently has been the new ploy by RBS to drive me skite. It’s taken ages to master digital banking, but, now I have, they’ve decided to complicate it a bittie more.
Every so often, when I make a payment, I’m asked to do what I now call a “full frontal”. To prove I’m me, I’ve to put my mobile close up to my face and blink in the frame provided.
Well, I hinna the foggiest fit I’m deein’ wrang, but it never works first time. Always: “Cancel. Try again.” Indeed, it’s getting worse. I’d to try aboot 15 times the other night, my e’en near raw from blinking. What the blinkin’ heck is that a’ aboot?
Patience is a virtue
Then, my trusty John Lewis card – which I use for a’thing to collect the points – suddenly announced it was all change. A new company taking it over. Old card kaputski in October. Need to apply for a new one.
On to my laptop, trying and failing many times. Nothing for it but the last resort – phone the loon. After the (expected) hugely frustrated sigh, he did the bizz. “All” I had to do was activate the card when I got it.
We’ll draw a veil ower my efforts. Suffice to say, I was too much of a feartie to call you-know-who. I managed to find a customer services number, immediately answered by Mohammed. Mo to Mo.
He was brilliant, talking me through it slowly and clearly while I was obviously upset and confused. Took aboot 10 to 15 minutes. In the end, still plottin’, I thanked him for his patience.
Then here’s him: “Actually I could have done it all myself for you in minutes. But I thought you’d appreciate being able to master it yourself.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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