Last night I realize my bank account’s about to dip into overdraft, so I go online to do some twiddling. God forbid my direct debits for magazine subscriptions or the gym fail! I knew the credit crunch (yawn) would eventually grab me, and the yearly cash in of my coppers tin to a different bank’s savings account would come to my rescue. Enter pin – check. Memorable pet’s name – check. Good ol’ Sally the goldfish, I miss you babe!
Then comes fury. Not only do I have to cross my high rise bedroom to dig out a ridiculous online banking device they’ve sent me, but it doesn’t work when I enter my card. Rewind 15 years to the times where people line up for eons whilst dippy cashiers fiddle with paper behind stained, plastic screens.
‘Can I help you?’ asks the lady. I was a mug to assume she could. On explaining my late night banking woes, lazy device thingy and urgent need to transfer funds, she hit me right in between the eyes with as fine a bullet point from the manual of bureaucracy as they come. ‘Certainly, that’s a £20 transfer fee please.’ Just how much did she think my piggy bank, the oldest of friends, had held in his belly?
Apparently it’s free to wiz money around the intergalactic superhighway but not in human form, in a building that’s sort of meant to deal with such tasks.
Not to give in before the face of inconvenience, I recall the invention of holes in walls and make a withdrawal from my savings card. One nil to logical thinking! Grasping my emergency notes, I cross the road and line up to deposit in the near fatally overdrawn bank account’s branch. Five cashiers, one line and a single person in front of me. Things surely couldn’t be any simpler. ‘So long technology. You’ve lost!’ I mumble.
Then, three cashiers close their windows, one spends the next forty minutes trying to communicate with someone that only speaks Danish and the lady in front of me loses her cheque book (wow – they still exist?) in her foot long bag. Out comes her family photo album, about three containers of medication, the world’s largest collection of intertwined key rings molded into words like ‘Mum’ and ‘Love’, then off she goes. I finally step up to the counter, hand over the cash, secure the fate of my beloved bills and take comfort in the smell of a Greggs Bakery next door.
‘Hmm, well at least I’ll be eating two for £1.09 pasties for breakfast. There’s good in every situation to be had’ I philosophize, preparing my change for the quick pre-office pit stop. Then, not that it wasn’t clear by now, comes confirmation that it’s just one of those days. The queue for cherry tarts and donuts is to the rim of the shops entrance, a kid is licking her dropped block of fudge cake off the tiles and I’m now an additional half hour late to work. No, I do not want a bag or receipt.