I wrote this post up a few weeks ago; now that the financial world is in complete meltdown, it seems a good time to post it.
Colin
Wednesday, 3 Sept 2008
I got a bank account. This took all day.
I walked in to Cambridge this morning (20 mins) and stopped at a branch of Barclay’s, one of the largest banks in the UK. I had with me: my passport, my tenancy agreement, a letter from the President of Rutgers University detailing my salary, a letter from the chair of my department describing what I would be doing in Cambridge, a letter from Clare Hall announcing that I’d been elected as a Life Member and was welcome back at any time, a bank statement from my account in the U.S.A., and several recent pay stubs. A nice woman looked at all of these, shook her head sadly and said that what I really needed was a letter from Clare Hall confirming that I was a life member, and indicating that I indeed lived where I said I did. I pointed out that I did have all these things, just not in the same letter. No dice. But if I could produce such a letter Barclay’s would be most happy to have me as a customer.
So I hoofed it out to Clare Hall (20 mins) to see if I could find someone to create a letter. Alas, the only secretary who could do such a thing was on holiday—for 3 weeks. She’d only just left yesterday. Sorry.
Was there anyone else who could possibly help me?
If you’ve spent any time in the UK you’ll be familiar with the particular kind of relationship that passes for customer service here. You come into an office, say, or stand in line for a half hour at the post office, and the secretary or clerk looks up at you with a bedraggled expression that says, “you’ve come here expressly to ruin my day, haven’t you?” Being a friendly American, you smile and say hello and make your request in the nicest possible way, and the secretary or clerk slumps a little bit more, and perhaps sighs, and shakes her head as if she thought that people stopped making requests like that years ago.
This is the point at which most Americans will give up and slink away, feeling not only defeated but naïve, as if, in our innocence, we had just assumed that the world was there for the asking. “No,” this encounter tells us. The world isn’t like that. Not at all. In fact, it’s a gloomy place where nobody ever smiles or pretends to be having a nice day.
But the key here is not to give up. In fact, you’ve almost broken through. You try your request one more time, and this time the secretary or clerk gives you a look so defeated and despairing that when she gets up you’re afraid she’ll announce that she’s just going to nip off into the next room and poison herself. Instead, she gets up and finds the one person who actually can help you out. Success! And the funny thing is, it’s clear that she actually enjoys being helpful; by the time I leave, she’s telling me about her grandkids. She wishes me a nice day. She smiles.
Letter in hand (the production of which takes 40 mins) I hoof it back in to the center of Cambridge (20 mins). I go to Barclay’s. I sit down with a bank manager. I proudly produce my letter and passport and ask for a bank account. She examines the letter, then my passport. She shakes her head. Apparently the letter refers to me as “Colin Jager,” whereas on my passport I am “Colin Lovell Jager.” Well, yes, “Lovell” is my middle name. This is a problem, you see, because the name on the letter and the name on the passport have to be exactly the same.
“But nobody told me about the middle name business,” I plead.
“They should have known at your college how we need it done,” is the reply. (This is a common, if implicit, refrain in many dealings with the English. You should always have known something beforehand, and the fact that nobody told you is entirely beside the point.)
“Well,” I say, going into my winsome American mode once again, “the secretary who normally handles such things is on holiday, so a different secretary did the letter for me as a special favor, and perhaps she didn’t know the proper form.” As I say this, I subtly emphasize the words “as a special favor.” I feel sure that the manager will immediately recognize that she too is being invited into the special club of nice people who have recently done nice things for the nice American placing himself in their nice, capable hands.
No response. Perhaps I am being over-subtle. And suddenly the jet lag hits me and I am tired and hungry and I’ve walked an hour and chatted up secretaries and dodged bicycles and raindrops and I’m stopped short by a middle name that I didn’t even like until I was 20 years old.
I ask her to call Clare Hall and get another letter. I go home for lunch, and promise to be back at 2:30.
I walk home (20 mins).
I walk back in (20 mins).
Even though I have a booked appointment with her at 2:30, the bank manager is seeing another customer. I suspect I’ve been thrown over. Either that, or she was developing feelings for me and didn’t want to mix business with pleasure. At 3:00 a different manager tells me can see me. Still no response from Clare Hall. I start pulling out every form of identification I have. Bank statements, mortgage statements, tenancy agreements, my US driver’s license. Hey, look at that: my driver’s license refers to me as “Colin L Jager.” Maybe that “L” is close enough to “Lovell” to get me in the door? I pull out my last smile of the day, and it really does feel like my last. She checks with someone behind the scenes, whom I now suspect of being some puppet master who has been pulling strings and torturing me since 10 o’clock this morning. She comes back. She smiles. I’m in!
An hour later, I am the latest member of the Barclay’s family.
I walk home (20 mins), triumphant.
Total time spent: 7 hours.
Miles walked: 6.
When I get home, Wendy hands me a cup of tea and says, “You knew it would be like this.”
