I opened a bank account at the beginning of the month.
I was told I would have to provide them with a six month detailed statement from my old bank before the account could become active. I contacted my old bank and they said that was no problem. I haven’t heard from them since.
In the meantime I received a new debit card and details of the account I wasn’t supposed to have. I transferred a few quid into this account and it worked. So did the debit card. All seemed ticketty boo despite the request for statements.
I could have left things like that but I needed to stick Herself onto that account for various reasons. Somehow I would have to get her into Skobieville to provide signatures. I phoned the new bank. It was the usual obstacle course of phone messages, options and irritating advertisements before I got through to someone with a pulse. Ah sure you don’t need an appointment says the pulse, just call in. No problem.
Yesterday we took the proverbial water buffalo by the horns and went into Skobieville. Logistically this is not very straightforward but nevertheless it was a fine sunny day and we don’t get many of those. We arrived at the bank. May I help you? says the sweet young thing behind the counter. I told her what we were there for and she said Yer Man who deals with that is booked solid for the day and could we come back another day? I went to say something but all that came out was a squawk. I was completely out of breath and sweating somewhat after pushing the wheelchair half the length of the town. Herself wasn’t looking too clever either. I had nearly tipped her out of the chair going down a steep kerb and she still was in a state of shock. The girl behind the counter began to look worried. She rushed off and came back a few moments later. He’ll see you shortly says she.
We waited. Eventually Yer Man came out and said he’d see us. It was the same bloke I had dealt with before. It was obviously his lunch hour but tough shit.
He started by saying he needed proof of identity. No problem says I and produced her Social Services card. Grand says he but I need something with a photo identity. I produced her Personal Services card [they have gone crazy over cards here]. Did I have a birth certificate? Yes, and I shoved it at him along with our marriage certificate. Still he wasn’t satisfied. He now wanted something on headed paper addressed to the two of us giving our full names and our address. With a flourish I produced my coup de grâce – a letter addressed to the two of us using our full names and address on headed paper from his own bank about an insurance policy.
He still wasn’t happy. He now nit picked about the insurance and had we paid it? I pointed out that I had provided precisely what he had requested but he said that wasn’t enough. He wanted a bill addressed to the two of us and not a letter about an insurance policy. I nearly told him to go fuck himself but I refrained. I deserve a medal for that. Anyways he did a lot of typing [and an incredible lot of rapid back-spacing] and muttered about “them above who won’t be happy with the papers supplied”.
We obviously weren’t going to get any further so we fucked off home.
Sitting at home trying to get my blood pressure down I had a thought. Every bill we don’t get sent [I do everything online these days] is in my name. Why the fuck would anyone have a joint account with the electricity mob or the broadband mob? I get all the bills [on the Interwebs] and I pay all the bills.
I have done my bit. Now I am just going to sit and wait to see what happens. If her name appears on the account then well and good. If it doesn’t then things can stay the way they are.
If Herself doesn’t like that I’ll threaten her with a return trip to Skobieville.