Someone in a management position in my household yesterday (who wishes to remain nameless on this blog), had to request that I call up our banking people to cancel a direct debit.
While I completely realise that this post will make emancipated women everywhere cringe, I’m free to admit that I don’t do the banking in my house, I don’t care about the banking and don’t want to know about the banking.
I care that the Mastercard, Handicard and Amex card work. Hard.
However, every now and again in order to get something accomplished I’m required to present myself on the telephone as the account holder or something and get debit orders or whatever changed.
The problem is that as I only ever do this every three years or so, the chances of me remembering my eight digit customer are minimal and thereafter remembering my three digit access code are less than zero. Sometimes similar to the balance of the said account.
However, I’m ever hopeful and willing to please, which saw me on the phone to a customer service representative bumbling my way through the “questions to identify you because you don’t remember your codes” process.
What is the key word associated with your acount? Fail
Are all your accounts in joint names or separate? Fail
What are the names of the accounts you hold with us? Fail
List a recent transaction you made. “I withdrew a hundred bucks out of an ATM at about 7.25am yesterday morning”. This question I’m certain I passed but apparently by this stage the customer service representative had had quite enough and informed me that she really couldn’t in good faith identify me and that my telephone banking privileges were suspended until I presented myself at a branch with full photo id. (Because my driver’s license photo is such a good likeness of my glamorous self).
I don’t think she was expecting me to say “Fuck, my husband’s going to kill me”.
The “fuck” must have scared the shit out of her because she didn’t admit to also suspending all internet banking. Cow.
In addition to the everlasting school holidays – work is reaching critical mass – and a trip to the bank was not on the agenda for today.
Unfortunately the peeps at Amex needed to be paid to ensure that a certain card continues to work. Hard. So off I scuttled.
The serious dudes at the real bank as opposed to the internet bank were much much nicer. There’s something to be said for face to face. They fixed me up quicksmart. They understood that the last time I telephone banked was in 2009 and that I couldn’t be expected to remember the code. They couldn’t explain however why the code I’d pumped into my phone in 2009 – that clearly said 3 dig code (I am like Pussy Galore in Goldfinger – subterfuge is my game) didn’t work.
We’re probably going to have the same conversation in 2015 when something similar occurs. Sanjeep also tried to sell me life insurance while I was there and some financial planning. I smiled blankly and gave him a business card. He’ll be in touch.
Management was unimpressed and felt the need to say he knew I was going to stuff it up. Truth be told, me too.
So while you cringe at my complete lack of financial knowledge and dependence on management to sort out finances, sleep well tonight, because management also knows that if he ever screws me over I will go at him with a chainsaw and dissolve him in a lime bath. And Sanjeep has my back. And all my banking codes.