Rarely prompted passwords
I pride myself on having a good memory (for trivial details), but some things just push my buttons. Case in point; the added password required by my credit card issuer. The one that only comes into play when I purchase from certain firms with an odd need to have the client jump through virtual hoops.
I can go for months without any need to add the code. Hence, when the request pops up, I’m not prepared to fill in the blank. And the fact that I refuse to write down passwords (a heightened reliance on my memory to keep my money secure) means that I’m left playing a game of “what is it?”. Grrr.
Our coffee machine is back, and the pleasure is palpable. No more camping cups to remove the haze of the morning. Of course, good things come with a price, and I had to pay for the replacement of the front panel switches. That’s life. Took a city bus in direction required, made good time, headed out to continue my trip and got on the wrong number. Sort of. I had the right trajectory, wrong direction.
I had curled up in my seat with a good ebook, put my glasses in my pocket and started to get into my storyline. Suddenly, the driver announced that we were at the terminus – all out. And I had no clue where I was. Disorientation. Of course I asked for directions, and the driver told me to get on another bus with the same number, parked across the way.
I trust the city system, but for the next twenty minutes I was in a foreign land. Suddenly, a landmark. I’d managed to return to my point of departure. Not the most effective use of time.
