JULY 1, 2026 – (Cont.) When I first met Tim, he was in his late 20s, maybe 30; a reformed paleo-archeologist with a masters degree from the University of Tübingen. I was impressed when years later he showed me his thesis paper—all in German. I didn’t understand a word of it, but I no trouble understanding that in addition to being a gentleman, Tim qualified as a “scholar.”
In any event, I hired him first as a law clerk, then as an associate, then as the firm’s dedicated techie, at which he excelled. That was pretty much back in the Stone Age—pun fully intended, given Tim’s prior avocation. Fast forward to yesterday, however, and Tim now jokes that for tech expertise, he relies on his kids. Tim left my practice a decade ago to build a niche landlord-tenant practice, but we’ve remained in close contact and have worked jointly on matters that fall outside the confines of Tim’s specialty.
In my tech-related distress yesterday, I phoned Tim. That’s when he told me his kids had passed him by in matters of technology. He didn’t refer me to them, however. Instead, he sent me the contact information for a local tech he uses—expert who specializes in assisting lawyers with Microsoft Office365. My problem fit squarely within this guy’s expertise. “It’s a beautiful world,” I said.
Here was what had nearly led to the unraveling of my sanity . . .
At the Apple store, I’d been able to transfer all my files from old to new machine on my own, without supervision or assistance. Good for me, though in all honesty, it’s a rather simple operation. The bigger task was to gain access to my Microsoft Office365 subscription via the new laptop. To do that, of course, I needed to enter my credentials. Easy enough in theory. Even in practice—if you’ve committed the username and password to memory, either via soft-tissue (the human brain) or digitally. In both cases, those “secret codes” were firmly in place. Except . . .
I received that unsettling prompt—in all red lettering—that my password was invalid. Still calm, cool and collected, I double-checked, nay, triple-checked, the credentials I’d entered. Still no go. Fine, no need to abandon my professional demeanor. I merely clicked on “forgot password.”
What appeared was a typical barrier: a test to ensure I wasn’t a robot; funny-shaped letters and numerals to interpret and enter in an inviting field. Good. Off to the races. Next (standard) barrier: click on method of receipt of a verification code—call, text, or some other techie-rich authentication. I opted for a text. Received . . . and entered. Good again. Now, enter a second secret code sent to my “alternate email address,” only partially revealed by the first letter and domain name. “Click.”
I then opened said alternate email account, expecting to find the second verification code but . . . waiting, waiting, waiting . . . none arrived. I toggled back to the Microsoft sign-in page and noted the caveat, “The email may take a minute or two to arrive. Do not reapply, or [in so many words, YOU WILL BE BANNED FROM THE KINGDOM FOR 24 HOURS WITHOUT ACCESS TO FOOD OR WATER]. I returned to the alternate email account. Still nothing. Now back to Microsoft. I clicked on more red lettering that said (in paraphrase), [Try this or that, but whatever you do, don’t keep applying for a new code or YOU WILL BE BANNED FROM THE KINGDOM FOR 30 DAYS WITHOUT ACCESS TO FOOD OR WATER AND WILL PROBABLY GO INSANE BEFORE THE 30 DAYS ARE UP]. I was now presented with a “punt” clause to the effect that “If you’re still experiencing trouble, contact Microsoft.” (Cont.)
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
