I just found out that the government has passed the customer service law so that no service can be served by a robot. Among other things, the rule will impose limitations on the use of answering machines and states that the client may require a human’s attention at any time during the call. Talking to a robot will end, as if that’s what we’ve all longed for, it’s making headlines unwittingly. For example, depending on the day, I like to chat with these machines when the operators are together, which happens very often. In recent weeks, without going any further, Unicaja must have paid millions of overtime hours to these poor executives who continue to meet in a loop without the ability to serve any customers. However, there was the option of talking to the machine, keying one, then two, typing the DNI, saying that was true, and once again listening to eighties pub music until everyone got their mantra for absolutely everyone. The rulers were still locked in an endless meeting. To endure the pain, I prefer farm robots, where to stand, they really know what they are doing. The ones from the banks are forcing you to mark you as possessed, to get you back to the starting point where you should never have left, but the ones from the Treasury get you going, look for whatever box it is, then type over and over again a thousand times the numbers of all your accounts, cards, and registration certificates from last year. I picture them in robot rooms, with a mocking smile on their metal heads, elbowing each other when someone who isn’t cautious tries over the phone to approve a draft or request an appointment. You’ll see, they say to each other in their metallic voices, you’ll see what we’re laughing at. And when you use the keys and select the city, office, zip code, day and time you want to report, the robot takes a sigh (if it can be called that) and exhales. For example, you have a nine o’clock appointment for Teruel or Albacete. Do you want to confirm? she asks, hiding her sarcastic smile as she imagines herself walking the empty streets at that strange hour of sunset with an envelope in her hand. And this is priceless, whatever the government says. If they remove unreality from me, if they force the statement to be made in my city and not in Teruel, if they release their rulers from their cells and we have to return to reality, what will I write about, how will I write? Shall I concoct stories of sinister offices in the middle of the night or parallel lives in the inner city of cities, where I can find the love of my life behind a desk in a sad, dark and dreary tax office? Don’t take the robots away from us, leave us the joy of imagining ourselves on our way to Albacete, on our way to free the rulers, and rejoin the happy world of eighties bar music that you hardly knew they were laughing at. they buy us the hair, but not the poor robots, but the usual ones. Let’s at least assume that those who treat customers as scumbags are made of metal, not flesh and blood. I’d rather imagine a sci-fi movie than imagine a terror-filled world of soulless and heartless beings made of the same skin that covers us all.