Being a person of immense wealth and taste, I find that my opinions are always very much in demand. So it is that my email inbox is very often graced by invitations to take part in online surveys, in exchange for valuable benefits such as competition entry, or perhaps the odd few nectar points.
One such survey I have just finished was asking all kinds of strange questions, including "What song would you like played at your funeral?" and "How long do you think you're going to live for?"
These are not your average survey questions, and I had to think a little while before answering. In the end I chose Samuel Barber's Adagio For Strings to be played upon my passing, but not any time soon, as I have decided that I will live to at least the age of 120.
If not longer!
Sunday 30 August 2009
Wednesday 12 August 2009
The Further Adventures Of Changemaster
I enjoy what I might perhaps describe as a "stormy" relationship with my bank. A harsh word to use, perhaps, given that in the main, my banking generally progresses without incident or error. I manage my account online, only rarely if ever make my way into an actual branch, and phoning up the call centre to ask what happened to that cheque I wrote is a once-in-a-decade experience.
I used to get regular phone calls from my bank, asking me if I had a few moments to "review my account", by which they meant that they would spend about half an hour telling me about all the lovely products and services they sold, but which I did not want. I would humour them, explaining exactly why such offers were not suitable for me, until eventually they agreed with me and would hang up, only to call again three months later. I put up with it for a while but eventually I had them put me on the 'do not call' list, resulting in my life becoming much quieter. For a while.
The disadvantage of being on the 'do not call' list is that it's the equivalent of putting your face on a 'WANTED' poster. "Have you seen this man? £10,000commission reward." It means that when I eventually DO need to use a branch or phone the call centre, buzzers and klaxons begin to sound, flashing red lights begin rotating in an urgent fashion, and the full force of the bank is mobilised towards the capture of the live customer who has not had his account reviewed for such a long time now that surely they can sell me some car insurance or something like that, if only they can correctly turn my bankly "interaction" into an "upsell" opportunity.
It was some time ago that, while calling the call centre to ask exactly what would happen if I wrote a cheque from an old chequebook which had the same account number but a different sort code - and the answer was "we don't know" - that their first capture attempt occured. Although entirely unable to assist with my chequely enquiries, the eager beaver call centre retriever was swift to take the opportunity to flag up, Columbo-style, that there was "just one more thing", and would I mind if he put me through to their review team.
I allowed the indignity to continue for ten minutes or so, swiftly dispatching their sales attempts, accepting it as the inevitable price of evading the bank's rigorous routine reviews, and accepting it all with good humour.
Some time around April last year, my bank phoned me. And by my bank, I mean not just my bank's call centre, but my actual branch. Such an incoming call is surely unheard of in these modern times, so I accepted the call with some interest. Would I like to come into the branch to discuss my account, they asked, and without waiting for a reply moved on to the more urgent question of what date I would be available, and perhaps I would like to come in tomorrow?
My enquiries as to whether there was something wrong were met with strenuous denials. "Oh no no no, there is nothing wrong, nothing wrong at all, Sir. We just like to keep in touch with our customers and make sure that everything is alright, whether there is anything we can help with, and we have very generous offers on loans right now, for example." I replied that I was not interested in a loan, only to find that apparently this was not correct, and that my bank possessed information which I did not, indicating to the contrary. "We can see that you've just had a loan from Egg Banking."
I will admit to raising my voice at this point, since by this point the penny had dropped and it was clear that they had been looking at my statements. I went on to explain that, actually, that large amount of money which had just dropped into my current account was a savings bond which had just matured, and that Egg Banking offered rather more than just loans, you know.
Having dismissed my branch's ineffective upsell attempts (and their telephonic interference so rudely interrupting the kingly quiet enjoyment of my cash) I bade them good day and indicated that I would look at their website and be in touch if I wanted to partake of any further products.
It was shortly before Christmas last year that a similar thing happened again. A few large deposits had hit my account (refunds from the wreckage of what was the Icelandic bank "Icesave") and once again my branch were eager to speak to me. "When would be a good time for your savings review?" And once again I skilfully avoided the review, by taking someone's mobile number and indicating that I would call if I wished to make any major investements. It made them happy and got them off the phone. And needless to say, I did not call back. Bankmaster Ant wins again.
Today, however, I really did walk into the belly of the beast. For the first time in something like 15 years, I walked back into my own branch in the centre of town. Having walked up the steps and in through the front door, once again I was back on the floor of my very own branch. A high-risk environment to be sure, and indeed, within seconds I was approached by a floor-walker. A new innovation, these appear to be roving staff whose job is to jump on any loose fish who may be careless enough to swim into the shark's open mouth. "Hello! Are you alright there?", she asked, as I was surveying the exclusive "Latest Deals" secret in-branch literature which is not publicised on their website.
"Stand back!", I cried, striking a rugged, action-ready pose intended to be somewhat reminiscent of Bruce Lee or Steven Seagal, but which may have been misinterpreted as Bruce Forsyth. "I'm just going to pay in some coins", I explained. The forces of Helpful Banking fell back, clearly destabilised by the overwhelming impression of power that I was displaying. Or alternatively, just not that interested since I had now made it clear that I was paying in coins, not money - thus confirming my physical appearance of being some kind of shambling, anorak-wearing hobo. I had bought myself some time, but the real battle was afoot.
I filled out my deposit slip and took my place in the queue. Soon, "Cashier Number Two, Please", was ready to serve me, fresh from explaining to some teenager that there was nothing wrong with his card, and that he would have to phone "Pay Pal" himself. I am sure that my transaction would be altogether far classier.
"Hello! Just a quick deposit if that's OK", I said to cashier number two please, and deposited my nicely-counted bags of 20ps, 10ps, 2ps and 1ps. Out came the scales, and there was a certain amount of weighing of my bagged coins (because clearly there are a lot of counterfeit 2p pieces around) before the usual rubber-stamp was stamped over my deposit slip. All was still well, but I knew that there would be just moments before it went down.
The deposit slip is stamped, my receipt is stamped, the deposit slip is removed from the paying in book, and fed into the computer. And now it's going to go down. From upstairs I am sure that I hear the sounds of klaxons and flashing red lights rotating in an urgent fashion. The computer has identified me. MR -BAUER- IS IN THE BUILDING.
The faceless automaton behind the counter is now a pawn in the machine, instructions fed to her via the automatic laser display. He is here. Now. This man is wanted at all costs. Begin phase one.
"Oh! You don't seem to be on our best current account package, Sir, I can get someone to have a chat with you about that if you'd just like to..."
"I'm sorry, I'm a little busy today."
"When would be a convenient time for you to return to the branch?"
The Helpful floor-walking drones begin to close in from behind. Swift action is needed. I choose to lure them in, then misdirect their attentions.
"I had a free trial of Advantage Gold, I really just didn't use it..."
"Oh, but we've improved it so much recently"...
Time was running out. As far as I knew, reincforcement supplies of specially-mobilised Helpful Banking advisors were on their way from the fourth floor. My business concluded, it was time to leave.
"That sounds lovely, I'll call to arrange an appointment! Er.. bye!"
I dodged and weaved past the floor-walker bots who by now had got themselves caught up in the complex one-way queueing arrangement. Out of the door, and having defeated my bank once again, I walk back onto the pavements of my fair city, to remain at large once again. Nobody gets away cleaner.
And then over the road to Argos to pick up a new catalogue. But that's probably a whole 'nother story.
I used to get regular phone calls from my bank, asking me if I had a few moments to "review my account", by which they meant that they would spend about half an hour telling me about all the lovely products and services they sold, but which I did not want. I would humour them, explaining exactly why such offers were not suitable for me, until eventually they agreed with me and would hang up, only to call again three months later. I put up with it for a while but eventually I had them put me on the 'do not call' list, resulting in my life becoming much quieter. For a while.
The disadvantage of being on the 'do not call' list is that it's the equivalent of putting your face on a 'WANTED' poster. "Have you seen this man? £10,000
It was some time ago that, while calling the call centre to ask exactly what would happen if I wrote a cheque from an old chequebook which had the same account number but a different sort code - and the answer was "we don't know" - that their first capture attempt occured. Although entirely unable to assist with my chequely enquiries, the eager beaver call centre retriever was swift to take the opportunity to flag up, Columbo-style, that there was "just one more thing", and would I mind if he put me through to their review team.
I allowed the indignity to continue for ten minutes or so, swiftly dispatching their sales attempts, accepting it as the inevitable price of evading the bank's rigorous routine reviews, and accepting it all with good humour.
Some time around April last year, my bank phoned me. And by my bank, I mean not just my bank's call centre, but my actual branch. Such an incoming call is surely unheard of in these modern times, so I accepted the call with some interest. Would I like to come into the branch to discuss my account, they asked, and without waiting for a reply moved on to the more urgent question of what date I would be available, and perhaps I would like to come in tomorrow?
My enquiries as to whether there was something wrong were met with strenuous denials. "Oh no no no, there is nothing wrong, nothing wrong at all, Sir. We just like to keep in touch with our customers and make sure that everything is alright, whether there is anything we can help with, and we have very generous offers on loans right now, for example." I replied that I was not interested in a loan, only to find that apparently this was not correct, and that my bank possessed information which I did not, indicating to the contrary. "We can see that you've just had a loan from Egg Banking."
I will admit to raising my voice at this point, since by this point the penny had dropped and it was clear that they had been looking at my statements. I went on to explain that, actually, that large amount of money which had just dropped into my current account was a savings bond which had just matured, and that Egg Banking offered rather more than just loans, you know.
Having dismissed my branch's ineffective upsell attempts (and their telephonic interference so rudely interrupting the kingly quiet enjoyment of my cash) I bade them good day and indicated that I would look at their website and be in touch if I wanted to partake of any further products.
It was shortly before Christmas last year that a similar thing happened again. A few large deposits had hit my account (refunds from the wreckage of what was the Icelandic bank "Icesave") and once again my branch were eager to speak to me. "When would be a good time for your savings review?" And once again I skilfully avoided the review, by taking someone's mobile number and indicating that I would call if I wished to make any major investements. It made them happy and got them off the phone. And needless to say, I did not call back. Bankmaster Ant wins again.
Today, however, I really did walk into the belly of the beast. For the first time in something like 15 years, I walked back into my own branch in the centre of town. Having walked up the steps and in through the front door, once again I was back on the floor of my very own branch. A high-risk environment to be sure, and indeed, within seconds I was approached by a floor-walker. A new innovation, these appear to be roving staff whose job is to jump on any loose fish who may be careless enough to swim into the shark's open mouth. "Hello! Are you alright there?", she asked, as I was surveying the exclusive "Latest Deals" secret in-branch literature which is not publicised on their website.
"Stand back!", I cried, striking a rugged, action-ready pose intended to be somewhat reminiscent of Bruce Lee or Steven Seagal, but which may have been misinterpreted as Bruce Forsyth. "I'm just going to pay in some coins", I explained. The forces of Helpful Banking fell back, clearly destabilised by the overwhelming impression of power that I was displaying. Or alternatively, just not that interested since I had now made it clear that I was paying in coins, not money - thus confirming my physical appearance of being some kind of shambling, anorak-wearing hobo. I had bought myself some time, but the real battle was afoot.
I filled out my deposit slip and took my place in the queue. Soon, "Cashier Number Two, Please", was ready to serve me, fresh from explaining to some teenager that there was nothing wrong with his card, and that he would have to phone "Pay Pal" himself. I am sure that my transaction would be altogether far classier.
"Hello! Just a quick deposit if that's OK", I said to cashier number two please, and deposited my nicely-counted bags of 20ps, 10ps, 2ps and 1ps. Out came the scales, and there was a certain amount of weighing of my bagged coins (because clearly there are a lot of counterfeit 2p pieces around) before the usual rubber-stamp was stamped over my deposit slip. All was still well, but I knew that there would be just moments before it went down.
The deposit slip is stamped, my receipt is stamped, the deposit slip is removed from the paying in book, and fed into the computer. And now it's going to go down. From upstairs I am sure that I hear the sounds of klaxons and flashing red lights rotating in an urgent fashion. The computer has identified me. MR -BAUER- IS IN THE BUILDING.
The faceless automaton behind the counter is now a pawn in the machine, instructions fed to her via the automatic laser display. He is here. Now. This man is wanted at all costs. Begin phase one.
"Oh! You don't seem to be on our best current account package, Sir, I can get someone to have a chat with you about that if you'd just like to..."
"I'm sorry, I'm a little busy today."
"When would be a convenient time for you to return to the branch?"
The Helpful floor-walking drones begin to close in from behind. Swift action is needed. I choose to lure them in, then misdirect their attentions.
"I had a free trial of Advantage Gold, I really just didn't use it..."
"Oh, but we've improved it so much recently"...
Time was running out. As far as I knew, reincforcement supplies of specially-mobilised Helpful Banking advisors were on their way from the fourth floor. My business concluded, it was time to leave.
"That sounds lovely, I'll call to arrange an appointment! Er.. bye!"
I dodged and weaved past the floor-walker bots who by now had got themselves caught up in the complex one-way queueing arrangement. Out of the door, and having defeated my bank once again, I walk back onto the pavements of my fair city, to remain at large once again. Nobody gets away cleaner.
And then over the road to Argos to pick up a new catalogue. But that's probably a whole 'nother story.
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