Money: In conclusion, probably safer under the mattress

“Hi, I’d like to exchange this money back please” I proclaimed chirpily. The cashier behind the glass wall that separates us both physically and spiritually from one another listens attentively – I’m sure she’s just seen me muttering to the lovely Sarah something about how pointless it is exchanging such a small amount of currency, but our house is reaching breaking point in terms of how much discarded currency you can leave dotted around the place. Personally I think it’s something to do with my schooling – it appears my friend from school has been ‘outed’ for doing the same thing.

Personally I hold out little hope for any of this. I won’t tell you which bank I’m with, but if you belong to a bank which seems to have an unhealthy obsession with making you use automated cash dispensers, automated cash depositers, cheque depositers, and automated- pretty much anything – then it’s that one. Seriously, it’s got the point now where I either have to pick a small village branch reachable only by donkey and sherpa guide if I want to talk to a human, or else I’ll have to employ an actor to distract the member of staff they post at the door to prevent anyone getting further than 12 feet into the building without being led to a machine.

“One, two, three, four, five… [pause] six. So that’s six pounds, yes?”. To be honest, I was so distracted by the unnatural pause in between ‘five’ and ‘six’ that the stupidity of her asking me to confirm that I’d given her six Jersey pound notes when she had clearly just counted them in front of me slipped under the net.

“Yes. That’s right. Six” I reply, in a manner slightly reminiscent of when I was a small child and went to the Woolwich to open my Henry’s Cat savings account with a few pieces of carefully-counted change. I’d chosen that bank because I liked the little picture on the account info and card – a practice which I still use in my financial decision-making today.

“Great. Here you go.” says the cashier, throwing 3 £2 coins into that little plactic trough they put under the bullet-proof glass screens which are clearly designed to thwart all bank robbers except those with banana-shaped guns. There’s definitely a weakness in the chain there.

“That’s the easy bit. The Euro’s will be a bit more difficult” she says, ominously.

I’d only brought back ten Euros. The task of withdrawing cash from my account in Euros had been so long-winded and traumatic I’d made sure I’d got my money’s worth by spending as much of it as possible. I remembered the cashier had explained at length how he’d got his David Dickinson tan on holiday, and how he’d only come back to work that day and had forgotten all of his passwords to allow him to do his important banking stuff on the computer. And I remember thinking how it was 2pm in the afternoon, and what exactly had this chap been doing all morning.

There was a pause as the cashier tapped frantically on the computer. In my head was an image of monkeys tapping away at computers as my mind tried to calculate how many monkeys you’d need before the opening lines of Far from the Madding Crowd emerged.

The cashier reached for her spectacles case, which was odd as she was already wearing her glasses. She unfolded a much-used scrap of paper with a single word written on it, and carefully and purposefully tapped it into the computer before folding it up again and putting it back in the case.

I was wondering if that was the official bank advice on pin-number security as she said, “So, that’s ten Euros”.

“Yes, a ten Euro note”, I replied biting my lip, crossing my toes and clenching both my left and right buttocks to prevent myself from laughing out load.I stared at the floor to avoid catching Sarah’s eye.

By now a long queue had formed behind me at the little rope thing that institutions place to mark out lines that shouldn’t be crossed with such efficiency that military checkpoints across the world can only look on in awe at their success. I thought momentarily about apologising to those waiting, but they had a look on their face that suggested they were expecting such inefficiency from many earlier experiences.

There was some more tapping, then she got up and left the cubicle. Yes, left the cubicle. I was now standing at AN EMPTY cashier with a queue of people behind me. She returned after what felt like an eternity clutching a hand full of print-outs.

She signed one, and paper-clipped my ten euro note to it. She then carefully folded it exactly in half and placed it to one side like she was disarming a bomb. “Can you sign here please?”. Normally I would carefully read an A4 piece of paper covered in officially Times New Roman text from a bank before signing it, but I hastily scribbled my signature as best as I could using a cheap biro attached to a small ledge with only 1 inch of chain and handed it back.

She then carefully counted out my money. “So, that’s five, then six, seven, fifty, seventy, five… [another long pause] …seven”.

Seven pounds and seventy-seven pence. Eight whole minutes of my life for £7.77. Four people held up in a queue in the bank for £7.77. By the time you factor in all of this, plus the cashier’s wages, the lighting, the electricity and broadband for the computer, the cost of the paperclip and the small rainforest felled for the paperwork, this was surely not worth £7.77.

£7.77

“Is there anything else I can do for you today?”, the cashier asked with a youthful enthusiasm that betrayed her maturity. I seriously doubted it would be and advisable or worthwhile endeavor.