You’ll appreciate why I’m changing banks

Ihad a big win this week, so I’m planning a party. Just a few friends, you understand, but I’m going to push the boat out with some good plonk and a nice bit of food. I’m sure you know the standard I’m talking about.

“And what was your success?” I hear you say. “Land a big contract? Won the lottery? Mrs P expecting a baby?”

That thud you just heard was my beloved passing out in shock and hitting the floor.

Nope. None of the above.

I’m having a party because I managed to cancel my overdraft with the bank.

Ordinarily this would not warrant such a response but if you’ve ever tried to cancel anything with my bank, you’ll understand every success is something to be celebrated.

Now, I will not be sharing the name of my banking institution during this weekly ramble. I think that might be a bit unfair. I totally understand anyone can have a bad day. I also get your operation is only as strong as its weakest link.

But if I said to you I have now decided to change banks, perhaps you will understand this was a very, very poor performance. In my opinion anyway.

So. Here we go.

For a while now Mrs P and I have had a little overdraft facility attached to our bank account. Certainly, not megabucks you understand but five figures and enough to get Team Page overseas in a hurry should some medical procedure be required quickly.

I recall when we got it added to our account — maybe six or seven years ago now — it took less time to organise than making a cup of tea. Such was the bank’s enthusiasm to give away wads of cash.

But try to, basically, give it back and it’s a different story.

For starters, nobody at my bank seemed to know who was in charge of “that”. As you know I am not a big fan of the online thing. I prefer your mask-to-mask contact — perhaps even with a bit of friendly chat.

It started well enough. Once I’d got from the back of the queue. The first queue that is. The one outside managed by the security guard.

From there I got inside the actual bank and finally made it to the teller (singular). The other one was probably out delivering a suitcase full of cash and giving a foot massage.

And while she was pleasant and tried to be helpful, it became fairly obvious she had no idea what I was talking about.

I quickly checked I hadn’t had a

I did wonder if it was the cleaner in some deserted call centre

bump to the head and was somehow speaking Spanish. I hadn’t and I wasn’t. So, I tried to explain it again. This time I saw a flurry of concern in her eyes when I uttered the word “cancel”. She scurried off to find someone else to assist.

Next along came another very pleasant lady, obviously senior, so I repeated my request.

It had to be done online, she said, and gave me a card with special instructions. Apparently, all I had to do was email Department X and tell them what I needed.

By this stage I’d spent the afternoon at the bank and it didn’t look like they had provision to put me up for the night so thought I’d relent and give the online thing a go. Couldn’t be that hard. Could it?

Er, that’s a resounding “Yes!”. It could.

It seems the card she gave me contained the email address of a department that no longer exists and an 0800 number that just goes unanswered. As it rang, and rang, and rang I had visions of a phone ringing in one of those old red phone boxes in the middle of the desert. No one around except the bleached skeleton of a former customer who couldn’t wait any longer. Anyway.

My efforts thwarted at every turn,

Mrs P stepped into the fray.

She rang on the regular bank line and was asked by an automated voice to outline “in a few words” what she wanted to do.

Now it seems those machines aren’t set to register the word “cancel” so before we knew what was happening a very cheerful chap came on offering to help us set up our “new account”. Patiently my beloved explained we didn’t need a new account. We wanted to cancel an old one, or more particularly the overdraft attached to it.

I could hear the disappointment in our new friend’s voice. But he was a trooper. He’d made some notes, he said, and would just put us on hold while he sorted it out.

It was 5.30pm when we went on hold. I know because I turned the telly on and got The Chase while the on-hold music, country classics no less, blared in the background.

Well over an hour later, probably more but time flies when you are having fun, I found myself singing along to Willy Nelson’s Blue Skies. Ironic really because there were nothing but thunderclouds above a very annoyed Mrs P. Eventually someone answered. I did wonder if it was the cleaner in some deserted call centre wondering who this idiot was on the other end who hadn’t got the thinly veiled message and buggered off for the night like everyone else. But it wasn’t. It was yet another pleasant lady.

No, she had no idea who we’d spoken to earlier. No there were no notes on the files. Yes, she could sort it for us.