NS March 4th, 2009

I had a call from the bank last Friday. It was the fraud department and they were wondering if perhaps my husband was in Ghana, trying to purchase items worth £79, £88 and £10 respectively. Seeing as TNH was safe and sound at his desk in Victoria and not anywhere remotely near Ghana, we mutually agreed that someone must’ve gotten hold of his card details and cloned it. Turns out it was done at a Sainsbury’s, of all places. Interesting…Of course, this meant putting a stop on his card and issuing a new one, which takes 5-10 business days. This was a bit of a pain because it meant loaning him my card on Monday so he could buy his monthly travel card and getting cash directly from the branch for myself.

Now, I hate banks at the best of times, particularly British banks, but standing in a queue with a baby who needs a nap and a toddler who is hopped up on sugar that you wouldn’t be surprised to hear she’d injected it, is not my idea of fun and particularly not when I ended up having to go back in the very next day (yesterday) because one of their cash machines ate my debit card with no explanation and just refused to give it back to me. At the second trip into the bank in 24 hours, I was told they had no idea why the machine had taken my card but that they couldn’t give it back to me and would have to – you guessed it – cancel it and order a replacement for me. Again, this takes 5-10 business days.

This brings us to the present. Here we sit, cardless. Debitless. Functionless. It was payday on Friday and I had some online shopping to do this week and now I can’t. I have to go to the (gasp!) ACTUAL SHOPS this weekend and physically obtain my purchases. To quote the Queen, we are not amused.

I had to go into the branch today for the third day running to get more cash and wanted to poke myself in the eye with a sharp stick by the end of it. The clerk wanted to see my card, first of all. Uhh, lady, I just explained to you that your stupid machine ate my card and my husband’s is now residing in Ghana somewhere and until you get your act together and get new cards sent to each of us, we have no plastic!

“Okay, fine,” she said. “I’ll just need to see some ID and a bank statement.”

I pulled out my driver’s license but didn’t have a bank statement on me (who would?) and asked what she needed it for.

“To get the account number,” she said.

Ah, you’re in luck, I told her. I have it memorized. I started to recite it and she got a panicked look in her eye.

“No, no, no! You can’t tell it to me, I have to see it on paper,” she hissed urgently.

Do you want me to write it down, then? Hand me a slip of paper.

“No, I mean I’m supposed to see the account number on some kind of official document. It’s a preventative measure.”

Oh, you mean to prevent my card from, say, ending up in Ghana, or in the jaws of a cash machine? Yeah, I think it’s a little too late for that. All that’s being prevented now is one of your customers getting her money and from being happy. So get a move on, sister!

She looked around her like she was in mortal danger and cased the joint suspiciously. Turning back to me in her swivel chair and with her nametag a little crooked, she leaned in so that I choked on her heavy perfume and whispered “Okay, go on then.” She looked exactly like my toddler does when she’s done something a bit naughty but that she’s incredibly pleased with herself for doing. I had to restain myself from saying “There’s a good girl!” and then giving her a sticker on a reward chart that I whipped up right there at the desk, with one of those pens-on-a-chain and a deposit slip.

After I left (finally) with my cash, I stopped by the store to get a few things I’d forgotten in the big load up a couple days before. As I approached the entrance I saw an armoured van employee emptying the cash machine — you know, a guy in a blue boiler suit and bulletproof, bash-proof helmet with a thick visor who collects the money from cash machines and busineses and transports it from one place to another, all while trying not to get beaten, carjacked or robbed. My first instinct was to race over and beg him to open the locked box and give me my card back but as I started to open my mouth, I thought better of approaching a man with thousands of pounds in his hands and his back turned to me. I don’t like getting Tasered on Wednesdays, if I can avoid it. Or going into a bank twice. Especially not going into a bank.

I think I’ll dust off the chequebook tonight.

• Britishisms , Funny Ha-Ha , I Bitch Therefore I Am
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