The Would Be Hacker

I’d love to say that being in a loving and rewarding relationship with my boyfriend makes me more stable when it come to my behaviour. Well, it does to an extent, but now and then, ever so occasionally, I’ll fall off the wagon and insanity will set in once more.

They say the devil makes work for idle thumbs and that’s the only excuse I can feasibly give for why, one day, while bored at work, something strange came over me.

It all began as I innocently contemplated how well I really knew my beau. Kind of like my own Mr and Mrs Quiz:

What colour is his toothbrush? Blue.

Where was he born? Hertfordshire.

What's his favourite book? Oh Christ, I don’t know. Noddy Goes To Toytown?

But did I actually know how his mind worked? Psychologically?

What happened next was always going to be a bad idea. But like a child who can’t resist playing with fire, I carried on anyway. Foolishly, I decided to see if I knew my boyfriend well enough to guess his hotmail password.

With the benefit of hindsight, this could obviously be misconstrued as wanting to pry into my boyfriend’s private correspondence, but I genuinely saw it as bit of a sudoku-style challenge - if I guess the password, I am clearly a genius!

I tried different variations. Titles of songs he liked, my name, his mum’s name, his ex-girlfriend’s (I'm not sure what I would have done if that one had actually worked). But, alas, nothing. I was just cursing my chap's superior brain, when to my horror a message popped up announcing that the login had been suspended. Because of ‘security’ issues.

‘Shit!’ I thought. ‘I've broken his email!’

Panicked, I confessed my crime to my workmate Isabel.

‘You tit!’ she laughed, shaking her head.

Then I called my boyfriend and owned up. My admission was met with a deathly silence. ‘Why were you trying to hack into my email, Charlotte?’ he asked.

I noticed he’d used my full Christian name instead of ‘Charls’ or ‘my little mentalist’, which indicated I was in big trouble.

‘I don't knoooow, I was booooored’ I whined churlishly. 

He sighed and then uttered the following mortifying sentence: ‘I’m really disappointed in you.’ Bugger. As it happened, my futile amusement had another alarming consequence.

That day I’d been wearing a 24-hour monitor which took my blood pressure every half an hour. The doctor had insisted on it, as my BP is routinely high for my age and he wanted to see how it averaged during the day. Typically, it went off, whirling and squeezing my arm, in the middle of the attempted-hacking drama. When I inspected the reading after my grovelling phone call, my blood pressure had gone through the roof.

I could have died of a heart attack. I blame the devil.

Charlotte Ward, London

author of: 

Why Am I Always The One Before The One?' Here's the website: