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I am not a number…

Back in the old days you just used credit cards around the world.   These days you have to tell them if you go abroad.  So I called my credit card customer service (a misnomer, surely?) to let them know where I’d be for a couple of days.  Just in case I wanted to partake of some duty free (though they’ve taken THAT bit of fun away, too.  But that’s another story).  So they asked for my umpteen digit credit card number.  Then they asked for my mother’s maiden name and various other things only I could possibly know (like my DOB).  Then they asked for my six digit password.

“My what?  I didn’t know I even had one.  And I don’t want one!  How am I going to remember it?  I already have to remember enough freaking numbers.”

“Well, if you want to speak to us in the future you’ll need your six digit password.  I’ll send you one.  If you want to change it to something more memorable, just call in and you can do it. ”

So they sent me my six digit password and I called in to change it to something memorable.

I gave them my umpteen digit card number.  I gave them all the bits of information that ONLY I COULD KNOW.  Then, with a big sigh of relief, I gave them my six digit password.

And then they said: “Now, what’s your seven digit user ID?”

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