Low Interest

I don't have a head for numbers, so walking into my local bank branch sends me into a cold sweat.

You'd think that after stepping foot into this particular money pit for more than 45 years, that the tellers would tell everyone about my arrival, the manager might hand me gold ingots and interest rates would climb in expectation.

Not so, for in 2018 this is one antsy place to be in.

Just the other day, fed up with waiting and with an obvious want to attract attention, the fellow behind me in the queue exhaled in a fashion not too dissimilar to the way an elephant seal snorts hot fish breath into the air.  With the odour wafting over my shoulder I shuffled forward but was blocked by Mavis who had just strolled in, with her passbook, and taken up poll position in front of me.

Up ahead at the money end of the queue, the manger – whilst on the phone to bank central – gave directives to the customer in front of him. Stymied at every angle, the customer left shaking his head so violently that I feared he'd slip a disk whilst exiting the bank. Meanwhile, fish breath was close to hyperventilating.

Branch Manger Peter functions like an automaton. Expressionless and humourless but quicker than a calculator, he has a telepathic tendency to predict what bank service you require. As a result, one false move on my behalf, be it a stutter, hiccup or confused message and he already has eyes on the next in line to be served. Hence my fear of cold sweats.

At this point two of three tellers left for a late lunch break, leaving Peter the automaton and a poor freshie staff member to handle the hordes that by this time were trailing out the door.

Next, Mavis was all set to stride up to the help desk when Dorothy walked in and proceeded to inform bank staff that her mother had taken a tumble and as a result could not visit the branch to withdraw funds. "Can I withdraw money on my mum's  behalf," she asked. "Power of Attorney needed. Next," replied Peter.

Customer service is topped with a wooden smile and the question, "is there anything else I can help you with today?" 'Wow, do you really mean that?' I refrain from replying, knowing the return serve would cock up the queue.

It didn't used to be the case. Back when passbooks were as prized as a passport and piggy banks were treasured I would enter the branch via the back door.  No special treatment here for the door wasn't locked. There was little security. None was needed. Customers parked out the back, strolled in and were served at one long bench.

Smart-dressed bank employees scurried from desk to desk, old-fashioned phones rang and the sound of stamps hitting table tops with authority signalled the completion of numerous transactions.

These were halcyon days when the butcher next door had saw dust on the floor of his shop, goods were wrapped in eponymous paper and he didn't hail from a long line of Hudsons.

Today, the back door of the bank has been bricked in, the bench removed and replaced with help desks. 

It's standing room only.

The comfy chairs, coffee machine and daily newspapers provided at a table in the corner belie the tense and tenuous nature of things within. But Mavis does enjoy the coffee.

Which bank? You may well ask.