My triumphant story of opening a bank account in six hours – after being told it could take four weeks – was met with cheers from my husband, who was away overseas. I felt like I’d pulled off a heist. And I waxed lyrical about my saviour who worked at the bank branch.
I initially attempted to open this new account online. After all, this is the digital age in which we lounge in pyjamas and manage our finances from our own home. Sadly, I didn’t make it past the start line and was informed I’d hear from someone in one to two weeks. That presented a problem as I needed the account urgently.
Do teller … these customers may be digitally connected but they’ll still queue for an old-fashioned bank teller.Credit: Getty Images/iStock
Which might sound entitled and demanding, but for more than 30 years, like many of you, we have made our bank lots of money. Our loyalty stems back to the times of chequebooks and frequent visits to branches where we’d wait in line for a person known as a teller. I don’t recall ever having to wait two weeks to fill out an application.
With that wisdom, I changed into my outside clothes and headed off to a branch that bore little resemblance to the one I visited last century, where I hid my pregnancy so we could get a home loan. Was I in a coffee shop, serviced offices or the staff break room? There were benches with stools, cubicles, and staff were free-range milling around and chatting. In a corner, two tellers stood casually behind what looked more like lecterns than a screened counter.
I suspect the security cameras detected my mouth agape as a staff member approached and commented that I looked lost. I explained my dilemma, and she confidently whisked me into a cubicle and started my application, needing neither appointment nor the extravagant explanation I’d prepared on the drive in. Within 15 minutes she’d submitted the application and closed the lid on her laptop, her job done. I’d just saved myself a fortnight!
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She explained the approvals team would now get back to me – in one to two weeks. This rang like carillon bells in my head. I conjured a dystopian vision of a wood-panelled office lined with rows of desks piled high with applications, where suited men sat with a cigarette in one hand and a rubber stamp in the other. Minutes earlier I had elevated this woman to sainthood, and now I was in some Monty Pythonesque scene where my patience was being tested.
Keeping my eye on the prize, I thanked her for saving me one to two weeks in submitting the application, but explained this further one to two weeks did not solve my problem. She stared at me for so long I wondered if her hand was hovering on a button under the desk.
I switched tactics, trying a little the enemy of my enemy is my friend by complimenting her swift action against the slow grind of a faceless team hidden in the ether. I cited my knowledge that there were no regulatory requirements to open an account of this type and asked if she thought a call to the approvals team might be warranted. I stopped short of apologising for wanting to give the bank our money with such short notice.
