Banking

Banking in England, as we had been forewarned by Fulbright, is an ordeal.  In the United States, if you show up at a bank with some cash, most banks would happily take it.

"Hello, Bank of America, I'd like to deposit this suitcase of $20 bills with non-sequential serial numbers."

"Sure, no problem."

By contrast, Susan and I had to make three visits to Nationwide, the bank we selected rather arbitrarily here in Lancaster.  We delivered two official notices of my employment and documentation that we lived in a house.  Because only I could get a letter from Lancaster University verifying that I work here, and oddly enough a University claim by the administrative assistant that I had an address was sufficient, only I can open an account.  No joint account for Sue because she has no bills mailed to our current address.  How would someone that needed a bank account or a debit card in order to turn on the electricity in a new dwelling ever manage to get an account with the electric company?

By the third visit we had graduated to a videoconference with a representative somewhere in Scotland.  She was a lovely lass with a Scottish brogue so thick I feared I might sign up for a home loan without ever realizing it.  Nevertheless, an hour later we had an account, or I did anyway, with no money in it.  They never asked for any.  But I did hear something that I thought I would never hear in all my life.

Said the Scots-woman, "I love your accent."



And for those of you still reading, just some Englishness.

Can You Spot the Missing "I"?