I’m a writer, businesswoman, and parent. I can’t tell you the number of GDPR emails I’ve had this week (but I probably don’t have to; you’re probably in the same boat).
Data protection… making sure no one misuses our data, particularly our precious email addresses.
On the one hand, it’s excruciatingly dull: no one should have to click THAT many links. But on the other, it has been a chance to reflect on the lovely perks of my life.
Yes, please, I’d like to receive Mslexia updates, and details of shows at Penlee Theatre. How lucky am I to have such treats in my inbox.
But seriously, the downsides…
Deep voice: thuuuh dooowwwwwnsiiiides.
I’ve had to email people I’ve known for years to ask if it’s still OK to email and could they please reply in a way that involves actual clicking or writing, even though they’re busy parenting, working, and surviving, and doing far more important things just like the rest of us. Why would I even send such a stupid email?
When people have sent the same to me, and many have, I’m bound to have missed clicking a few links, and will miss the lovely updates that I’ve taken precious time to subscribe to in the past.
I’ve had to ask busy professionals to take time out to check things that are even duller than tax returns, and we’ve all sat with our eyes glazing over, just sort of gaping.
Wading through Facebook terms… death by internet.
And finally, telling grown people how to manage their own privacy is just lining yourself up to look like a total arse.
They won’t email ever again; I will be Billy-no-mates.
I may have already seen my last party invitation.
This week, GDPR has tried to suck my soul out through my eyeballs. I lost hours. I have definitely lost credibility. I have probably lost friends. I’m going to run away now, to my family, my home, my pets, my gin, anything, anything, to salvage what’s left of my will to live.
GDPR: please make it stop.