In a recent confession in this newspaper I told of my frustrations in making a telephone call to my bank.
You may recall I was saved from desperation by actually visiting the local branch of the bank and talking to a fine young man, not only about my account, but also about his interest in Central Otago history. We had the banking bit fixed up in no time and although the mechanical voice on the phone had told me "all our customer service officers are busy" he and I had a prolonged natter about gold mining in the 1860s. I decided then that from now on the only way I would do any banking business was by fronting up at the branch.
I followed this policy recently when I wanted to move money from one account to another.
(Given the state of my finances, the move was rather like the actions of the head steward in relation to the deck chairs as the Titanic began to tilt a bit).
The queue was not long and within minutes I was greeted by a smiling young lady who nodded when I told her why I was there, but then added, "You could do that at home by phone banking, you know?"
"I'm sure I could. But I don't 'do' phone banking." There was a hush broken only by the sound of indrawn breaths. I felt like the man who wandered into a pub and said, "I'm not really interested in the World Cup." "In that case," she beamed, "Why not pop out to the machine by the door and do the transfer there. It's very simple." "I'd rather not deal with the machine," I replied.
"Especially now that I've got you, if you know what I mean." Several staff looked my way and, although unspoken, the word "troublemaker" seemed to be hovering in the air.
Suddenly, in the tradition of the Lone Ranger, my old friend the banker who had helped me on my last visit hastily left his post and galloped up wearing the kind of smile bank staff adopt in television commercials (beaming, but a trifle forced, and in this case with perhaps a touch of anxiety). Of course, I could be imagining all these nuances.
However, after he had conducted a whispered conversation with my teller (I could lip read the words "ODT article") it appeared that some kind of emergency response plan had swung in to action.
Casually (almost too casually) another staff member emerged from a back room which appeared to have an endless supply of charming young ladies and welcomed me like a long-lost brother. In fact, it turned out that her father is a great friend of mine and that only yesterday he had been telling her about the last conversation he and I had.
I'm sure it was about the incompetence of the local authority because all our conversations are about the incompetence of the local authority.
Her appearance was no coincidence, I'm sure. Since my last blast against banking, I imagine the bank combed the staff list looking for people who "had" anything on me. What glee there must have been in the Sydney boardroom when it emerged that a daughter of a friend of the troublemaker was already working at the very branch which had been under fire. As my friend's daughter and I talked, I was being walked towards the door, almost without realising it. On the way I was offered food by another attractive young lady who was operating a sausage sizzle. I'm not sure that the sizzle had been operating when I came in to the bank. No doubt, once my loudly-expressed condemnation of phone banking had been heard, the barbecue had been wheeled out as phase two of a pre-planned charm offensive to placate dangerous customers.
My guide now had me in front of the machine out in the street.
Again, almost without realising it, I'd pushed a couple of buttons and the money transfer occurred in a split second. Meanwhile, I was getting the low-down on who had just bought the pub in her home town in Central Otago and what she had been up to as a schoolgirl when the old pub had been done up years ago.
Fascinating stuff. We parted the best of friends and I drive off with a warm feeling for all bank staff.
I suppose I will now use the machine to do my banking in future, but what a dismal prospect.
I have yet to discover a hole-in-the-wall money machine which comes from Central Otago and, not only has a father whom I know well, but knows who's got the pub there now, and also offers free cooked sausages and tomato sauce, but back at the bank, I imagine a round of self-congratulation was in order as the staff shared their relief at keeping out of the Otago Daily Times this time round.
• Jim Sullivan is a Dunedin writer.
