We’ve all done it. Well, I’ve managed to avoid doing it for a very long time. About 40 years, in fact.
But now I too have joined the ranks of inept communicators who long for a recall button that doesn’t exist, after inadvertently sending a message to the wrong person.
It’s clearly a common phenomenon. A quick Google search reveals dozens of pages offering advice on how to retrieve or smooth over the heinous impact of a mis-sent message - as well as some amusing examples.
One man provides details in a sober tone about a used car for sale in one message, then follows it up with a lovey-dovey promise to ‘hold u in my arms all night’.
Not a pledge you might normally find in Autotrader, and one the recipient evidently found disturbing too, responding with the rebuff: ‘look dude, I’m only interested in seeing the car.’
Another corker was the message sent out by the admissions team at University College San Diego in America, welcoming all 48,000 prospective candidates to the university with a ‘congrats – you’re in’ email (even though 28,000 of them had already been rejected).
My own email mis-send involves a double confession - firstly, it was to the editor of this very paper. Cringe.
And secondly, it concerned this column.
With the Yorkshire Evening Post undergoing a much vaunted revamp, it’s time for some fresh faces in the columnists’ stable.
Accordingly, I received a sweet email from the editor thanking me for the (almost) two years during which I’ve been writing ridiculous stories about myself, (as well as voicing my most unbridled opinions), but advising that it was time for someone else to have a turn.
My intention was to pen a sanguine and articulate response, thanking him for the opportunity and reiterating what a pleasure and privilege it has been.
But before I composed this professional missive, I fired off a ‘forward’ to my boyfriend to inform him of the news - along with a soppy message of love, a sign-off with a pet-name and a confession that I had recently found it hard to come up with new ideas anyway (what do you mean, so you’d noticed?!).
Except I didn’t press forward. I pressed reply.
One grovelling email later, I at least managed to convey to the editor that this act of stupidity proves all the Bridget Jones-esque scrapes I’ve written about over the months are genuine and clearly not embellished.
A slightly circuitous way to prove my authenticity as a klutzinista, but effective nonetheless.
So, to make it clear I’ve passed on the right message this time, next week will be my final column for the Yorkshire Evening Post. Thanks for reading, and I promise not to request to ‘hold u in my arms all night long’.