Banking on Failure

It used to be so straightforward, you’d go into a bank, join a queue, and get sorted.

Now, when you go into a bank, there seem to be more people meeting and greeting than actually seeing to customers’ needs. One I came across was very good at pointing me in the direction of the nearest empty desk, and, when the employee finally appeared, they said I needed to be waiting in a queue upstairs. It must be a cushy number, smiling and pointing and getting paid. Bit like being a politician mounting the party conference platform. They’re trained to point and wave into the crowd, makes them look like they’ve got friends, apparently. Come to think of it, not a bad thing for bankers to start doing.

In the bank I visited today, the person dealing with all enquiries other than straightforward withdrawls and deposits stood awkwardly at a shelf with a computer on it, with his backside up against the printer. As there was no desk as such, customers lingered in the ‘lounge’ area. No one dared sit on the sofas in case they lost their place and had to wait another eon. The loitering mass got a bit shifty and the lack of desk boundary meant you got too close and accidentally heard the financial traumas of the person in front. A toddler with his mother behind me expressed what we were all thinking, by lying on his back in the middle of the circulation area and yawning loudly. Eventually a bullet proof door painted bright red (possibly to camouflage the blood splatters I thought ruefully) was flung open and a harassed manager came out to assist the crowd. She helpfully told me that I could no longer do the transaction I had successfully done in the bank many times before, that I needed to use the card. ‘ I don’t have a card’, I helpfully interjected. She looked quite annoyed, took all my documents into a secret cave where bankers hide, like Bin Laden, and eventually came back saying she’d get into trouble, but she’d done it, in a tone that demanded my gratitude. Having spent most of my lunch hour in the queue there wasn’t much I could offer in the way of gratitude. Maybe she could be grateful she still had some customers, although it wouldn’t be for long judging by the comments they were making in the psuedo lounge, which had since taken on the feel of a party no one wanted to be at. They could start offering shorts, that would help. By the time we all got pressed up against the stressed man at the shelf, we’d be squiffy enough to sign up for anything and add extra noughts on our loans.