When did the corporate world become so annoying? All you want to do is buy a small replacement part for your vacuum cleaner, but first you need to open an account.
Sure, OK, I’ll open an account. They want my name, age, address, email and phone number. I must create a password of more than eight characters, one of which must be a numeral and the other a symbol.
Remember when shopping didn’t involve being quizzed by salesmen about your childhood traumas?Credit: iStock
They also need the answers to three security questions, involving the name of my favourite teacher, my first pet and my mother’s middle name. And my credit card number, of course.
At this point, I leave the screen in order to find my wallet, which turns out to be beneath the couch in the living room, which means that by the time I’ve found it, I’ve been timed out of the website.
OK, sure, I’ll start again. I start again, filling in all the required details, while changing my mind about my favourite teacher and developing doubts about the name of my first pet. Was it Misha or Masha? Maybe Moosha. Get one letter wrong and I’ll never again be able to buy replacement parts for a household appliance.
Also, the dog nearly killed me, when I was just 18 months old, grabbing me by the head and shaking me in a fit of jealousy, leaving me to be stitched back together during a lengthy stay in the Port Moresby hospital, while the dog, on the insistence of the local authorities, was put down.
My mother was heartbroken about the incident. As she reminded me for years, it was a very good dog.
All I want is to be able to vacuum the hallway and suddenly I’m transported to a horrific tale from childhood. Back in the old days, when you’d buy your vacuum parts from Godfreys on Parramatta Road, I don’t recall being quizzed by the salesman about my childhood traumas. “Look, I know you just want a new dust filter, but first a word with our resident psychotherapist. How do you feel about your relationship with your mother?”
Also, this time around, for some unexplained reason, I have to prove “I’m not a robot” by identifying the bridges in a panel of poorly photographed street scenes. I’m half-surprised they don’t require me to select three photos featuring frenzied dog attacks.
Finally, I’m in. I’m a “member”. I order the part, putting it my “shopping cart”, because – like every other website – they’ve decided I need an old world reminder of the basic mechanisms involved in shopping. They then invite me to move my “shopping cart” to the “check out”, at which point they start adding extra costs, including post, packaging, GST, credit card fee and a donation to a dolphin-rescue charity.
My $27.50 part now costs $58.93.
I decide to leave my “shopping cart” in the “check out” while I storm out of the “shop” and drive off angrily in my “car”.
I locate another company, which also insists I relate my life story before they’ll even consider my membership. I tick various boxes and chant various incantations. There’d be less ritual involved in joining the Freemasons.
This site is the same as the last except it has a drop-down menu from which you must also choose your preferred honorific from a list that includes Mr, Mrs, Ms, Flight Lieutenant and Dalai Lama. They also want you to create a password of 12 characters, so you can’t use the one you created a minute ago. They are not interested in the identity of my first pet, but wish me to disclose the name of my favourite grandparent.
Well, that’s a sore spot, since I only met one out of the four, and then only once. Mentally, I’m back at Godfreys on Parramatta Road, pouring my heart out to the in-store therapist. “Yes, I think my life would have turned out differently if I’d had the love of a good grandparent.”
Wiping away a few tears, I complete the form. Finally, I’m in. I select the part, at which point they tell me it’s sold out. I decide to throw my “shopping cart” out the shop “window”.
And so, I sign up with a third company. Name, age, favourite sports team, sorry, don’t have one, which is tough when you are an Australian man, but perhaps it’s because I never quite recovered from that dog attack...
This time around I also notice that I have to tick a box to say I “understand the terms and conditions”, which includes a link to 96 pages of closely typed legalese under which I agree to place my family into servitude to this particular company for the next 16 generations.
Still, the part does arrive a few days later and, remarkably, it’s the right one. I’m momentarily a happy customer.
That’s until emails and texts start arriving from all three companies, demanding I rate their service, it should only take 10 minutes. It’s clear all three will email and text three times a day until I comply.
I decide to log in. If only I could remember how to spell the name of that dog.
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