When I was young, being given ‘options’ was a treat.
When I was young, being given ‘options’ was a treat. It felt empowering — as though I were in complete control of my destiny. ‘Do you want to play Monopoly or Careers?’
‘You have a choice — a Zoom or a Fab, what will it be?’
‘If you have a bath now and get ready for bed you can stay up and watch either Top of the Pops or The Persuaders — you decide.’
In those halcyon, carefree, pre-health and safety days both choices were always presented as being agonisingly fabulous, and much of the thrill derived from the deliberation itself.
Now that I’m an adult I’ve done a complete volte-face on options. I loathe them. They no longer represent freedom of choice — instead they’re just decisions loaded with potentially irrevocable consequences.
In theory, all human, patient and customer rights should be cause for celebration. They’re in place to give power back to the people; yet in reality they’re a legal form of ‘blame-shifting’. The pros pass the buck back to the ignorant, and thus absolve themselves from any liability.
I recently visited an emergency dentist because I was suffering from toothache.
‘Aagh,’ said the dentist looking into my mouth. ‘I could easily leave this tooth where it is and try giving you a strong course of antibiotics. Or I could take it out here and now. If I extract it, you’d in all probability have to have an implant at a later date. Alternatively, you could just leave the hole to heal and see how you get on. What would you like me to do?’
Whoa. Hold on. Stop. Too many scary choices for a layman like me. Too many options. In medical situations like this I crave stern authority. I want my health to be in professional hands — not volleyed back and forth between a dentist’s superior knowledge and my ill-informed whims.
It’s the same with the plumber who comes to mend the broken boiler. ‘Aaagh,’ he sighed. ‘This is not looking good. Either I do a patch job and — who knows — it may well see you though to the winter, or else I replace your existing system with a new Potterton. They ain’t cheap, but then again it’s not my money. It’s up to you.’
If it were up to me I’d eliminate all options unless they were of the win-win, Fab-or-Zoom variety. We’re not really being given valid choices — we’re being asked to make snap-decision risk assessments, with potentially dire consequences.
The worst offenders of all are the pre-recorded telephone options that invariably never come close to addressing the problem.
Last week my internet connection decided to die. Using my mobile, I called BT and entered a Kafkaesque nightmare of button-punching. A robot answered.
‘To check a line or report a fault, press two. Welcome to the Fault Management Service.’ Pause. ‘This is BT Business One Plan. As soon as you hear a word or phrase that applies to you, repeat it back to me. You can interrupt me at any time. Or ask for more options.’
I kept saying ‘help’ but nobody listened.