In which I bank.

Have you ever noticed that the word ‘wank’ rhymes with ‘bank’? If you’re into wordology, you’ll find that the derivative Latin ‘wancus’ does indeed refer to participle ‘wancum irritatum’, which is the ancient root form of the word meaning ‘house of storage’(*). Hence it is not unlikely that one would find much wank in a bank.

It is not – you understand – that I expect that any bank is necessarily full of wankers. No. That would be ignorant of me to suggest. What I am saying is that banks are generally full of wanking – not wankers. Well, I suppose if you are wanking, that does indeed make you a wanker, but that line of thought simply doesn’t help my argument at all. Let’s just say – for point of discussion here – that banks are full of wanking.

Why? I’ll tell you.

I lost my bank card about a month ago. An incredibly wankful thing to do, I admit.

I telephoned Card Stop to help me do what their name so generously offers it will.

In no time at all, the ladytron at the end of the line promised my card was indeed stopped and that she would automatically send a new one to my branch.

“Goodbye,” she said.

“I have a branch?” I asked.

Click.

Wank. I have a branch? That’s news to me. I’ve been wanking banking online since before I can remember. I expected that my physical branch was somewhere in alpha beta nine of internet cyberspace.

As it turns out, my branch is located in a completely different dialect district of Antwerp (Melsele). May as well be on another continent if you’re living in a country the size of Belgium.

So I contacted the said branch, and asked if they could deliver my new card to a dialect district that I could understand (anywhere outside of Melsele).

“Of course, not a problem.”

Now that’s customer service for you. Except that it’s not. Its wank. Complete and utter wank.

Because that was one month ago. And millions (*) of phone calls, emails, trips to Melsele (have you ever been there?), cancelled cards, re-issued cards and at least seventeen free mints (which don’t taste like mints at all. Why do they call them ‘mints’, then? Sarcasm?) which lie in a pot on the bank clerk’s desk, later, I still don’t have my card.

Wank. Wank. Wank.

Until today, when the wanking ended.

Or so I thought. I went to collect my new bank card, only to find that the bank had cancelled my credit card. But fear not, for they had immediately re-issued me with a bright and shiny new credit card. With a photo of a lovely baby elephant on it. Cute. But still. Wank.

I tried to express my frustration to the bank clerk.

But, it would seem that ‘wank’ is not an oft-used term in the dialect of that particular branch.

Perhaps I should again ask them to switch branches to a bank that uses the same dialect as I?

(*)Rubbish.