“It won’t let me into my email”, the Cow grumbled, “until I perform some kind of weird security ritual involving human sacrifice on the altar of Microsoft.” She reached for her phone, clumsily dragging it closer with her hoof. “I thought you had two weeks before you needed to change your password?” Bronstein mused from behind the radiator. “So did I,” shrugged the Cow. “But I can’t confirm that without accessing my email. Which I can’t access until....”
She clicked the link warily, and stared down the Captcha that challenged her to prove she was human. Laid out before her was an obstacle course worthy of Crufts, but she duly jumped through all the hoops. She obediently went to the website she was directed to, and scanned the QR code as instructed. She watched in patient anticipation as the Authenticator app installed itself on her phone. She allowed notifications when prompted, and proceeded to add an account. “Select ‘work or school’” the instructions prompted her. That selection wasn’t offered. Instead, the spinning wheel of death presented itself, its mesmerising regularity oddly soothing. After many minutes of Zen calmness, the app timed out. The website timed out. The Cow sighed and attempted to reload the app. It provided a steady stream of six-digit numbers, but didn’t appear to be linked to anything. Her account didn’t recognise anything she dictated to Gramsci to input from the app - after all, 8 limbs were quicker when it came to digital input. And still no email access.
She went back to the website, and selected “choose another means of authentication” and consented to receive codes sent to her phone. Finally, she regained access to her email and resumed working, muttering darkly about the hours she’d lost. The sun had by now retreated entirely, and the evening chill stole across her desk. It was almost 3 pm. She minimised her email and worked happily enough, until a notification alerted her to an incoming email. Maximising her email, she was challenged to reauthenticate. “But it’s only been a few minutes,” she harrumphed. She picked up her phone, read out the numbers to Gramsci who patiently typed them in for her. She read the email, wishing she hadn’t. It was reminding her to change her password. “Tomorrow,” she sighed. “I can’t face that today.” She minimised her email and went back to her work, ignoring the incoming emails since each time she was required to reauthenticate. “Who has the time?” She asked the void. The emptiness boomed back.
*. *. *.
The next day found the Cow puzzling over her keyboard. “16 characters?” She shrieked. “Have i unwittingly stumbled into ‘Alice through he Cryptic Crossword’?”
“Why not look up your current location on ‘What 3 Words’ and use that?” suggested Bronstein helpfully.
“Tried that,” grumped the Cow. It wasn’t long enough. I added some random numbers, but then I needed to write it all down, and that became A Security Risk. So no.”
“The Government is big on three-word slogans,” ventured Gramsci.
“StrongAndStable!” chortled Bronstein.
“EatOutToHelpOut?” smirked Gramsci.
“Should’veGoneToBarnardCastle!” roared Bronstein.
“StayHomeSaveTheNHS?” giggled Gramsci.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” bellowed the Cow. “It’s not supposed to upset my blood pressure!”
“Song lyrics?” offered Gramsci, in a conciliatory tone. “Something innocuous... “
“Got it!” The Cow grinned and hammered at her keyboard. “Right!”
A meeting reminder popped up on her monitor. The Cow opened Teams and clicked “join now”. Moments passed. Nothing happened. “Damn,” she muttered, “it probably wants my new password!” She logged out of Teams and tried to login with the new password. “Computer says no” she raged. She tried again. And again. And several more times, just in case. Still nothing. She sighed deeply and went back to the password reset site. “Yes, I’m human,” she lied and fooled the Captcha once again. She tried to reset her password, but nothing that she tried was accepted. She checked the instructions. “16 characters,” she muttered, “upper and lowercase”. By this time she was into dozens of characters, special characters, Icelandic þðöæ and emoticons, and was even considering animated gifs. “Helpdesk?” suggested Gramsci warily. He knew she still had PTSD from the Helldesk at the Knowledge Factory on the Hill. But the Cow was desperate. The workday ended in a few minutes, and she was scheduled to teach first lecture the following day. She needed access, and she needed it immediately.
After the very kind young man on the Helpdesk reset her password, the Cow was terrified to touch it and left the insecure password in place until her teaching was safely over, the recording posted on Stream, and all time-critical tasks completed. Finally, she mustered the courage to reset her password. Drawing a deep breath, she counted the characters she’d just entered and sighed in satisfaction. “Destiny!” she chuckled. “It’s exactly the right length!”
Gramsci peered nervously over her shoulder and read it aloud to Bronstein:
IdetestMicrosoft
“I’m guessing you’re not the only one who chose that,” he grinned, “but the chances of forgetting it are remote.”