Today I changed my car’s registration into my name. I had to go into a service centre because the online form came up with an error message.
The issue was to do with my details needing updating. The Customer Care staff-member I was directed to wore a tight bun and crisp shirt tucked into high-wasted pants.

With a forced smile, she asked me to login to my phone’s service NSW app so she could transfer my details onto the share computer screen.
She took my phone and entered my email in neon blue against a bright white screen almost as wide as a television that anyone walking past could see.

“Your password?” she asked.

I told her I couldn’t remember it.

She stabbed my phone with a finger, navigating a path through settings, “Here, see if you have it stored in Passwords.”

“What a great idea.” I pretended to not have thought of doing just that (it’s easier to play along, especially with someone who obviously deals with idiots everyday).

She shoved the phone in my face so I could unlock the ID.

“Found it!” I announced cheerily, “I’ll just tap on the dots to convert the hidden figures.”

We both watched the password reform into letters:
BigB0ringShit

An awkward silence followed, her finger poised on the share computer screen, deliberating. Eventually, she made the decision to type it up, asking, “So you’ve used a zero for the O?”