Day 637: I Get A Reply From The Bank!!!

I amused myself by telephoning the customer complaints department this morning. I had to tell the entire (long, relatively dull) story (I cannot even find the energy to provide a link; it is the post before this one) three more times. Allegedly they are going to call me back on Wednesday (I am super-excited).

In the meantime, I receive an electronic mail communication (I reproduce it in its entirety, weird spelling and all):

Good Afternoon NWM

I havent received the messages you have left here for me, did you call
the branch in Fleet Street?

Either way I am looking into your charges tomorrow and will look to
refund these at from what I understand, charges occurred from the Branch
misplacing a cheque.

I will update you tomorrow with further action.

Thanks and regards

I was having an irritating day, plagued by people bellowing URGENT and then doing nothing. I wrote back. Not particularly polite, granted, but anyway:

Hi

Thanks for getting back to me. I called the branch who seemed to suggest they would get a message to you.

Please could you address each of these points:

- why the second mortage payment was returned when you said it would be cleared
- interest lost on my offset mortgage
- general apology/compensation for how long this has taken
- the returned direct debits being paid.

Weren't you also going to investigate what happened? And whilst I appreciate that something (finally) seems to be happening, why has it taken so long, and why is only part of the problem being addressed?

Best

Nearly four weeks it's taken, and even then they can't get it right. Twats. (I'd call them 'cunts', except cunts are usually fairly effective and/or intelligent.)

Day 635: I Write To My Bank

There is little to say, other than I paid a cheque for $10,000 into my bank account in the UK on 3 January. "It will take a week to clear, madam!", they squeaked. It did not! A week became three weeks; then six; then eight.


Finally, it was revealed that the cheque had been lost.

Three months and two unpaid mortgage payments, ten returned direct debits, approximately 20 unreturned phone messages and forty emails later, I write to them or call them* pretty much every day. Nothing ever happens, but still I write. Here is the email I sent them today:


Morning all,

Hope you all had a good and relaxing weekend. I didn't, really, to be frank; sadly (and despite my best efforts, meditation, breathing into a paper bag, etc), I'm getting increasingly irritated by the fact that I'm being ignored. Anyway, here goes with today's email! (Are you enjoying them? They could make quite a collection!)

I left a message for you on Friday Mr Rogers - I take it you didn't get it? I bet you didn't. You didn't call me back, and there's only one reason why someone would ignore a pissed-off customer: because they didn't get the message! (Weird - that's happened twice this week.)

I really hope you haven't written to me at my London address. There wouldn't be any point in that; I live in Canada, as I keep saying. Still, just in case you do want to write to me and apologise, and tell me what you're going to do about lost interest on my offset mortgage, refunded bank charges, paying unpaid Direct Debits, etc, here's my Canadian address:

I've written to customer services via RBS online, just to see if something else will help prompt a response. I'm not quite sure what to do after that, mind you. Any ideas?

Now, I realise that the thought of phoning and talking to me fills you with dread. (It's been frightening you for at least six weeks, it seems - poor you). But you could give it a go: here (again) is my number: 001 450 .... If a French message kicks in, don't be afraid - we speak French in this part of Canada. Just leave a message. It'll be nice to hear from you. In fact, if I don't get it immediately (which I may not: I travel a lot, you see), don't worry: I'll make sure I call you back.

If that seems too difficult and/or scary, you could send me an email. (It would be nice just to know you're getting them - I think it's called "polite acknowledgement" or something?) If you don't want to do that, though, you could write to me at the address above. Oh yeah - the address I've ALREADY given you, asking you to re-direct my statements and correspondence - something else that (heavens!!) seems not to have happened.

Have a great week - fingers crossed this is the week you finally get rid of me by getting back to me, eh?!!! (As we say in Canada.)

Best wishes

NWM


Does anyone know a really effective way of kicking up a truly enormous fuss about things like this? I am - despite writing sarcastic emails (an occupation that always amuses me) - properly at my wit's end, in a kind of 'aching at the back of the throat and stinging eyes' way.

Oh, and if you work for the Royal Bank of Scotland: sort your shit out, would you? (Particularly your branch at 1 Fleet Street.)


* Them: the regional manager, the area manager, the private banking person who was looking after my account, and his boy.

Day 621: I Do Some Surveys At The Airport

I have been doing some surveys at airports recently using my eyes, a pencil, and the back of an old Ladbrooke's Pools coupon.

The results are summarised in handy chart form below. They are revealing - yet not that surprising. I know you will like them.

(If you have tiny eyes, click on them to make them bigger; if that does not work I simply do not know what to suggest, other than a magnifying glass and a large-print book from the Reader's Digest.)

Day 614: I Am Alive, Dear Readers!!!

"Are you DEAD?", demands one reader in querulous tones. Dave wonders if I am happy.

MonkeyMother writes from France, one ankle strapped, suggesting that I write a 'post' asking what to do with the matching 3ft high urns in our new 'apartment'. I check with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police: preserving midgets in formaldehyde is not legal in Canada! That puts paid to MonkeyMother's dastardly scheme (for the time being, at least).

Meanwhile, the snow continues to fall; someone dies, and I do not find out until a week and half later; my best friend grows great with child; I cannot get back to England for my god-daughter's birthday; I cannot go to the Royal Bank of Scotland on Fleet Street and set them on fire. (Instead, I must write endless emails that are ignored, or leave messages that are lost, never to be returned.)

Every week I mount an aeroplane flown by the best of all the airlines. I leave Montreal on a Porter aeroplane (do not get excited; they only fly between aeroports in Canada, using less fuel as they fly than an SUV over the same distance, with the added benefit of jaunty caps and ham sandwiches), and fly to Toronto. There, I stay a "boo-teek hotel" for two or sometimes three nights, interrupting my consumption of the minibar only to bellow in fury at the words "... sample our delicious fare", written upon the room service menu.

During the day I attend meetings that I do not understand and agree to things I do not want to do. The other people seem to enjoy it and think it is a good way to spend the day. I am not so sure, but as they give me money every two weeks I think it is probably best if I keep my opinions to myself.

At the weekends I fret about work I have not done or work I should be doing. The pathologist looks at me from underneath his curled forelock and makes scrambled eggs; I pluck hairs from my face in the light of the magnifying mirror; my brother comes to visit, whereupon we slide; my friend Charly comes, whereupon we listen to gypsy music and drink pints of ale. They go and I am sad, but there is not much to be done about it: it was them or the pathologist, and he had curlier hair.

But yes, I am happy, since you ask. I would rather not be working, but what can you do. One must keep oneself in absinthe and pipes, and it will all work out in the end; and at the first whiff of melancholy, I simply press "play" on the following film and all is right in the world:

Day 602: I Hope The Fungus-Bearing Intruders Keep Away From My Canine