On Forgetting your PIN
As time drained away, he gawped at the screen like a medieval serf trying to comprehend helicopter controls, confounded by one simple question after another – questions such as where he was going, and how many of him there were. I ground my teeth to chalkdust as his hand hovered over the touch screen, afraid to choose, like a man deciding whether to stroke a sleeping wolf.
Finally the prick was done, and once I had waited for him to collect his tickets and his bloody receipt, it was my turn. Having no change, I opted to pay by card. But just as my hand moved toward the keypad to enter my pin, a voice in my head whispered: “You don’t know what it is.” And it was right.
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