"We are sorry that the 09.35 service to Richmond has been delayed by ten minutes. We apologise for this delay and for any inconvenience this may cause."
Unfortunately, I failed to be touched by the tone in the robot woman's voice. Whoever or whatever recorded it could have done a better job at synthesising or feigning the perfect combination of sympathy and remorse. As it was, the apology left me cold, not that I wasn't already shivering as I stood on the windswept platform at Kentish Town West station.
I was soon having an argument with myself. Part of me thought that it was nice to them to make the effort to apologise, even though it was manufactured. Through the swirl of rain and wind, it was sort of nice to hear the word "apologise", even if it did come from a robot woman with zero expression in her voice.
The other part of me mourned the loss of sincerity, humanity and personal contact, the thought that this recording could now be considered an appropriate medium for an apology.
It was this second internal voice which prevailed. Apologies, I realise, can be the most human and humiliating things we do. The way in which we do them, if we do them, defines us as people. They expose us as imperfect and flawed, they confirm that we're not consistent or logical or rational or punctual. The sincere apology by-passes all the boasting and posturing, the brinkmanship of arguments and the injuries of ambition.
Maybe I'm overreacting. Is a recorded apology any different from writing "sorry" on a piece of paper and then posting it on a noticeboard?
I just don't think anyone should ever apologise about anything unless they truly mean it. But how can a machine "mean" it. And if we can "apologise" by flicking a switch on a piece of electronic equipment, then the difficulty for companies, public bodies or even individuals to be taken seriously when they truly are sorry about something grows even greater. And that's where cynicism creeps in.