Password Hell

This week, I found myself thinking about my death. Not the possible instance of death. (Isn’t that normal? Doesn’t everyone manifest some portent of doom when carrying out their day-to-day activities – or is it just me? Recently I have been worrying about digging holes for fence posts on the off chance I strike unexploded ordnance below ground… but I digress.)

Not death itself, more specifically, the aftermath. In the possibility that the aftermath is, in fact, an afterlife, I imagined myself awaiting my turn to enter paradise. I’m standing in a queue, partly because I am British – and we all love a good queue – and partly because there has to be some order to the afterlife, surely? Thousands of people stand on the clouds in front of me and the line stretches for miles towards the Pearly Gates.

I’m getting a little narky, as being above the clouds, we are closer to the sun. And I hate the sun. I’m wishing that I had brought some sunglasses with me, but I suffer in silence.

The queue moves on, and we build up a rhythm. Shuffle. Stop. Ponder about speaking to the next in line. Stay silent instead. Repeat.

As we get closer, I notice something strange ahead. Hardly anyone is getting in. A thin line of dejected people is being turned away, ushered to an escalator that leads back down through the clouds. I wonder why. Is it a lack of belief? A show of impiety? Finally, it is my turn to be processed.

I walk forward and stand at the counter. Beth, as her name badge states, doesn’t look up as she finishes of some paperwork. Beth is not, as her name badge states, ‘happy to help’. I wait awkwardly. Do I say something, or perhaps clear my throat? But now I haven’t, so is it now more awkward to break the silence than to let it fester? She looks up and flashes a half-hearted grin at me as she chews gum. She is peering at my chest and I look down, seeing my own name badge for the first time.

“Carl F Northwood,” she reads and consults her list. I am dismayed that paradise still uses paper. She continues. “What does the F stand for?” Before I can answer, she speaks again.

“Oh, it says here that you’re an author. Is it a pretentious F?” she flashes that saccharine grin again.

“Yes, no, no.” I stutter. I mean it does stand for something, but it is a bit pretentious. “It’s Francis.”

“Date of birth?” she carries on.

I reel off the answer and stand fidgeting. Now I realise that I should have answered earlier a la Fawlty Towers – ‘Pretentious? Moi?’ and I kick myself. Another awkward silence. This time, I break it. I mean, I haven’t got all day, have I?

“Is that it? Can I go in?”

“Not quite.”

‘What now?’ I think to myself, fingers drumming on the counter. Beth glares, a full on secondary-school English teacher glare. I stop.

“When you were christened, either you or your parents would have set a password. Can you tell me that password, please?” She purses her lips, playing with the piece of gum, rolling it between her teeth and lips. I stare at her as if she had asked me to walk to the sun and back. I raise my eyebrows inquisitively. In reply, she taps her pen against a sign on the counter that I could have sworn was not there before.

“The password can be a memorable word or phrase, or date. It can include alphanumeric characters and special characters, including Unicode.” She reads it for me, assuming that I am too shocked or stupid to comprehend. I know what a password is, Beth!

“What the actual…?” I start.

“That’s not correct, and that is your first attempt. Did I mention that you only have three attempts?”

“Wait! That’s not fair! I can’t remember setting one. I mean, come on, I was only a few months old…”

“So, it must have been your parents then. Did they not mention it to you?”

“Of course not! Wait, can we ask them? They must be here?”

“Well, we need to confirm your identity first, and then we can.”

“Good. Let’s do that, Beth.” I flash my own sarky, saccharine smile back at her.

“Okay,” her cheeks puff up and the piece of gum appears between her lips, like the tongue of a serpent tasting the air before it strikes. “If you can confirm the password, that will confirm your identity.”

I scream and slap the desk.

“I can’t remember! How can I? It was over fifty years ago. I can’t even remember my shoe size without looking…”

She taps another sign on the counter. Likewise, this wasn’t there a few minutes ago.

‘We will not tolerate violence or abuse towards our staff. We are here to help,’ it reads.

“This is crazy!”

Two burly security guards appear, and they pick me up by the armpits as I continue struggling. They march me towards the queue for the elevator.

“Isn’t there a password reset?” I call, but already Beth and her gum are too far away to hear.

Within minutes, I am heading down through the clouds. Down towards the other place. And I smile. I smile, because surely between Heaven and Earth, I’ve served my time in Password Hell.

If you have read this far, then yes, I have had PASSWORD ISSUES this week. I am off to lie down and have a cry.