'Computer says no': Why is everything so difficult now?

Cavanman's Diary

You may recall a few months ago, I was very new-fangled with walking. I had bought a Fit-Bit, which, like a wearable Interpol, tracked my movements.

I was surprised at how it impacted me. I quickly became a slave to this gizmo on my arm. I began, for example, to park as far away as possible from where I was going, with the result that I was late for a couple of things, ceding moral high ground in the process, which is never good.

The dog started to get sick of it, too. For a couple of months, she was loving this craze but I got the impression, after a while, that all the walking had become a chore, that if she got a chance, she’d chew the blasted Fit Bit into pieces and bury it in the garden.

“Dogs,” wrote Emily Dickinson, “are better than human beings because they know but do not tell.” My dog knew. She would give me a look, which I took to mean, “here, give it a rest, will you?”.

Things came to a head when someone asked me had I slept well and I found myself saying “let me check”, before pressing a button on the watch to find out - and, when that didn’t work, frantically pressing 10 more. As it turned out, I had thought I was well-rested that morning but the Fit Bit said different – it gave me a score of 43%, barely a pass - and, suddenly, I felt tired and a little bit guilty.

But I stuck with it for another few weeks until I came home from holidays and couldn’t find the charger. Again to quote Dickinson, I was afflicted by the “deepening menace” of the death of this battery. A mild panic set in. What was the point in wasted steps? Why walk if a small gadget on my arm doesn’t tell me I’m a great lad for doing so?

It was then that I had a moment of clarity. As Tyler Durden says in Fight Club, the things you own, now they own you.

So I liberated myself; the Fit Bit was left to gather dust on the counter. From now on, if I walked anywhere, it would be on my terms, not those of Big Brother on my wrist. I began to resent the thing and decided my method of rebellion would be to spend more time on the couch. That would show it who was boss; if long runs the fox, well, longer sits the man without a Fit Bit.

I told this story to a few people and their reactions were much the same: I was a contrarian, a luddite, a technophobe. In response, I pointed out that, for all the advances in technology, the instant access to information, things have become much more complicated, more time-consuming, infinitely more frustrating.

In support of my case, I offered up Exhibit A: How in the name of all that is holy is it handier to scan a QR code in a restaurant than pick up a menu?

All agreed that, yes, I had a point there. So I began to keep an eye out for these things.

And then, last week, I had to insure the car; knowing it was going to be a nightmare, I took a note of all the steps. At this point, I thank you for facilitating this therapy session.

Remember, back in the day, one could just call into an office or ring someone, a person fully conversant in the English language, and complete this process quite easily. In this brave new world, however, the price of progress is that the old rituals are now so much harder on the patience, and the wallet.

So, I took out the laptop and logged on to the insurance company’s website (in a pleasing turn of events, the computer connected to the wi-fi fairly promptly), hoping this would be straightforward but knowing, deep down, it would take half the day.

I clicked a button that said “Access my portal” and bingo, I was in!

Next, I was directed to “Secure Your Account”. That meant I had to “Scan the QR Code below using your preferred authenticator app and then enter the provided one-time code below”.

Already, I was getting a bit wound up. So, I went back to my phone and downloaded the prescribed app, which in itself led to several more steps. I ticked boxes to allow it to send me notifications, to accept that they required diagnostics data and to improve the app by sharing my “app usage data”.

I persevered, silently bargaining with this automated system – “I scratch your back, you let me insure the car painlessly”, kinda thing.

Next, I reached a page which said “secure your digital life”. I had three options and, like the advice offered to Rocky Balboa, I hit the one in the middle, choosing to sign in with Microsoft. I then entered my email address, which definitely exists, and a message popped up saying that this address “does not exist” – but, helpfully, they offered to send a code to assist me with signing in.

So, I hit “send code”, checked my email-which-exists and there it was, six little digits that would help me move closer to the elusive dream of purchasing car insurance.

I had, by now, it said, successfully added my email address – but, there was more. Something called “App Lock” was now enabled. This seemed important. “To turn it off, go to app settings”, I was directed. What it was, why I would need to turn it off and why it had ever been turned on, I didn’t know.

It felt like I was being taunted.

Surely, though, I was nearly there. I took a deep breath and moved on to the next section. I now had two options to click, one of which was the email address it wouldn’t accept earlier.

My notes are sketchy at this juncture – a silent seething rage had taken over – but the next message it sent me was that, happily, “Passwordless sign-in” was enabled. However, I needed an eight digit one-time password code, which bizarrely seemed to change, flickering every few seconds.

I tried entering one of these codes but it wouldn’t work so it directed me to get a different code, this time six digits long.

Back I went to the start and found the original email from the insurance company again. Now, I had another option - opening with 'Samsung Pass' or this mysterious authenticator. I can’t remember what I chose but I had to then confirm if I wanted to do this “just once or always”. Naturally, once was enough.

Unfortunately, the authenticator was locked, a state that looked quite appealing to me at this point in time.

“Enter your screen link to access authenticator,” barked my laptop, “Use your biometric to continue.”

Completely lost, I typed in my phone’s six-digit pin.

“Add account so you can access the one-time password code,” I was directed. I sensed the laptop laughing at me as it appeared that I now had three accounts. I had been at this for about 15 minutes or so; I had other things to do.

So, I clicked on one called ‘Customers’, it fired back yet another six-digit PIN and, lo and behold, I was in!

There were a few options open – “your policies”, “your archived policies” and so on –and I hit one at random.

“Unfortunately,” came the message, “we are having technical issues with our driver number validation service. Please go to the following link to update your driver number.”

I clicked on the link. There was a spiel about new regulations and I laughed bitterly at the line “we’re here to guide you through these changes in a click”.

The Frequently Asked Questions popped up. I grimaced. One line jumped out – “What happens now that I have sent my details?”

“As it is a legal requirement for all insurers in Ireland to retain and share this data with the competent authorities in Ireland, you do not have to do anything,” it read.

So, I sat there not doing anything for about 30 seconds or so and, realising that an insurance disc had not materialised out of the ether, I went back to the Godforsaken customer portal, Hell’s waiting room. My details seemed to be saved – a genuine miracle - but for the laptop to automatically fill them in, I needed to enter a 10-digit pin.

I obediently did that and was immediately met with a message saying “verify your identity”. Thickness had by now set in, like rigor mortis. I was paralysed by bad temper but said I’d persist. Surely, I was nearly there.

“Check your preferred one-time password application for a code,” it said. What code? What password? Why? How?

I cursed the laptop and the insurance company and the expensive horses they all rode in on. I tried to figure out what was next but, unable to do so, had no option but to go back to the start and look for a new quote.

You’d have to laugh, really, or you’d go around crying – or entering a six-digit code into the wall with your head.