Cash Machine
Staff discount is a wonderful thing…. well, as long as you’re interested in the product in which your organisation specialises. I know my sister never leaves the house without her 20% off card, which she uses to re-invest half of her salary into the clothing outlet in which she plies her trade. Personally, 50% off an insurance policy for my fridge has never appealed, as it still means forking out 50% more than that which I’m prepared to pay.
I joined the back of the line of those waiting for the bank- or should I say the hole in the bank? I returned to my previous musing, wondering if this might be another instance of an unattractive staff discount- banking. I can’t imagine that the prospect of 20% off your savings account or ISA would be the greatest of employee incentives.
As always, when I required dosh, there was a sizeable queue for the money machine. As always, when I needed money, I found myself stuck in a jam with a mixture of slow and learner withdrawers. It was scenarios such as this which made me sympathise with bank robbers, who were no doubt ordinary folks, merely in a hurry. One also had to suspect that counterfeit-money manufacturers were not interested in the financial gains; they were merely trying to save themselves a bit of time.
The man who headed up the cashpoint crew waited until the third time lucky before correctly inputting the relevant four digit sequence of numbers. He was struggling more with remembering his PIN than you would have if trying to find one in a stack of hay. I did begin to question (not verbally mind- that would’ve been rude), if indeed it was his name which graced the front of the card.
Next came the woman who was clearly still adjusting to this new advance in technology. In fairness, part of the delay was probably caused by the initial mental conversion, which she no doubt needed to do, from shillings into pounds.
Then there was the girl who looked barely old enough to have a piggy bank, let alone a Debit Card. Clearly, she had raided Mummy’s purse this morning, prior to leaving to go to/bunk (delete as appropriate) school. She seemed pleased with her initial answer to the problematic question concerning how much money she would like to withdraw. However, as she was on the verge of collecting her mother’s card and her £20 prize, the sound of the Crazy Frog revving up his motorbike began to emerge from her suitcase/handbag (delete as appropriate). Annoyingly, she answered her mobile prior to collecting Mummy’s card. The beeping, which was by now emanating from the cashpoint, bordered upon being as infuriatingly annoying as her chavtastic ringtone- which I’m sure you’ve all heard playing on an ad break near you. It emerged that this young “lady” had underestimated how much a night out might cost. Still, I suppose she had to be forgiven for this misdemeanour, as being all of 15, she’d probably only tallied up a couple of years worth of clubbing experience. Were they earrings or basketball hoops?!
Anyway, to recap upon on her progress on “Who wants to be a cash withdrawer?” ….she’d already used her phoned-by-a-friend lifeline. She was now mentally utilising her 50-50 option: £10 or £20? Anyway, at this rate she would not even have advanced beyond the fastest finger first competition. In addition, judging by the expressions on the faces of those in the now inflated queue, asking the audience was no longer an option at her disposal. Eventually, on her second turn, she plumped for an extra £20, and sensibly opted to take the money and run.
Now there was only one person between me and my money (ok, strictly speaking- the bank’s- overdrafts are wonderful things, money for nothing and all that jazz). The next contestant was expensively suited and booted. It wouldn’t take an FT reader long to access his finances, surely! Due to his highly visible affluence, it took longer to proceed than I had anticipated. Edward the Executive (or whatever his name was) possessed a multitude of bank accounts- and proceeded to make a withdrawal from every last one of them, checking the balance of each for good measure. You know the type, they request a statement print, and rather than digest the info in the comfort of their own home, stand at the machine examining every transaction which appears. It is no great exaggeration to suggest that Edward, with all his cards, was not too far from having a pack, and it would also not be too unfair to suggest- given the length of time which he spent at the machine- that he was the joker therein.
Finally, my turn. Of course, my withdrawal was very efficient- once I had rummaged around in every pocket (thrice) in search of my long lost cash card. Eventually, I selected the customary £30 minus advice slip- call me bitter, but I’ve never gained much from taking the advice which cashpoints so readily dish out! I belatedly headed to the pub (which it transpired welcomed payments made by Debit Card) to spend my hard-earned winnings.
