It’s the end of a long day. I’m ready to run for the train. As my computer shuts down, I gather up the discarded paper from my desk and carry it to the secure confidential waste paper and thin card bin along the corridor.
The SCWPATC bin has a locked lid with a thin slit for depositing papers. I put my papers in the slot. They do not disappear, due to an excess of confidential waste paper and possibly thin cards piled up beneath.
I do not want to leave my confidential waste paper poking out at the mercy of data desperados bent on document theft. So I prod the papers firmly through the slot with my shortish, but not stubby, middle finger.
My finger gets stuck in the slot. Quite painfully, behind the second joint. I pull it up. It does not slip free. I glance at my watch. Nat. Ex. trains wait for no man (only wildfowl). I need to hurry.
I pull harder, bravely ignoring the pain. The locked lid lifts lazily off the bin, exposing an Aladdin’s cave of confidential waste paper.
I am free. I just have a large curved plastic lid encasing my hand. I look like a Pelota player. I do a quick risk assessment. The lid on my hand is inconvenient, but not life threatening. It will not change my life, although I will have to get some larger ski gloves. Typing will be difficult. I could run for the train.
With a sigh I hold the lid down firmly with my other hand and yank my trapped finger out of the slit. The lid slots back into position, re-securing the waste assets. Somewhere in the distance a train whistle blows.
