And have a nice day...
On Wednesday night I sat on my credit card. And while the little piece of plastic wrestled gamely with so prodigious a weight, all its cries of "I think I can..." eventually came to nought when it was split in twain.
While the hi-larious view of broken card as metaphor for shattered finances didn't escape me, I was more concerned with the pedestrian concerns of withdrawing cash to pay for this months rent before going travelling next week. So today I grabbed my student card and a 'Working with Children Check' ID (both being photo ID) and headed up to the local ANZ to let the friendly staff there assist me in withdrawing cash over the counter.
Being a typically busy Friday afternoon, the bank had thoughtfully arranged for two of their tellers windows to be closed, while the third was staffed by a jumpy trainee along with reassuring matron to coo along the fledgling's efforts. This meant that customers were treated to the chance to really slow down and smell the artificial flowers, or perhaps the carpet, for the 30 or so minutes it took to get to the teller. And when one finally did:
D: "Hi, I'd like to withdraw some money please."
TT: "Of Course. We just need 2 forms of signed photo ID."
D: "Here ya go! My student card and a WWCC card."
TT: "But only one of these is a signed ID?"
D: "Sure, but they both have photos. And here is my broken credit card, which also has a signature."
TT: "But the signature is not on the photo ID..."
D: "Well spotted. But what you have in your hot little hands are 2 pieces of photo ID, 2 examples of my signature, and a credit card for this very bank. Plus, a winning smile to show how genuine I am!"
TT: "But we need the signatures on the photo ID. Do you have a drivers license or ID from any other bank?"
D: "No. Although to be honest, I'm thinking very seriously right now about getting ID from another bank..."
This light-hearted banter went on for a few minutes. And then a few more. By the time the grumbling of the line behind me, now snaking moodily out the bank and into the road (and then far more acceptingly into the pub opposite), reached a dull roar, common sense prevailed and I was suddenly presented with my dosh, making a quick exit with head covered immediately afterwards.
The only problem was that about an hour later I realised that although I'd picked up enough cash for rent, I'd completely forgotten loose change for booze at The Sleepy Jackson gig tonight. So back to the bank I trod ... and entered the twilight zone. Same line. Same tellers. And WORD FOR WORD same conversation. At first I thought they were just teasing me. But with a slow creeping horror I realised that they truly intended to go through the entire rigmarole again. And we did.
Which brings me, in a very circuitous fashion, to the point of the story.
As I was finally grabbed my second batch of cash, cheeks flushed with righteous indignation and back bloodied with holes bored into it by the eyes of those in line behind, I found myself automatically - unstoppably - once more saying to the tellers: "Thank you, and have a good weekend". If I'd been wearing a hat I would have doffed it to them.
So the questions that now prey inexorably on my mind:
1) How much ludicrous, bureaucratic nonsense will people let others put them through before they crack?
2) Is the local ANZ branch taking applications?