I went to the bank, today, because my high-flying lifestyle demands that I spend a lot of time dealing with my assets.
Alright, that’s not true; pretty generally I spend my time sat around scratching my assets, but I had to transfer some money, so to the bank I did go.
I had to send a friend some money, so went to the establishment he banks with - not naming names, but it’s a type of annoying fly and the fourth point of the compass - and after queuing up behind the obligatory old lady, I made it as far as a cashier.
For some unknown reason, whenever I go to a bank I’m never dressed for it. I don’t go very often, but last time I went in with a freshly shaved head, and the cashier required ID before he believed I was me. Today I was wearing a hoodie and a baseball cap (it was cold and raining) and as such was rocking what should probably be referred to as “purse snatcher chic.” Either way, the teller addressed me as “sir” in the tone that implied air quotes without him actually having to make them.
“Hi,” I said, in what was probably already an “I don’t want to be here” tone of voice, “my friend has an account with you guys and I need to transfer him some money, can I do that here?”
“Sure. Do you have your card?”
I produced my bank card, dutifully.
“Oh, you’re with another bank?” he said, astutely.
“Yeah.”
“Ah, you’ll need to go and talk to them, then.”
I shrugged, having already assumed this process would be more complicated than it needed to be, and trudged off to my bank. Again, I won’t name it, but it’s in West Yorkshire and just north of Huddersfield.
“Hi,” I began, in much the same tone, having waited behind the obligatory guy who doesn’t speak any English and is angry about something. “My friend has an account with another bank and I need to send him some money, can I do that here?”
“No,” said the cashier, cheerfully, “but you can do it online or over the phone or via mobile. Do you have our app?”
I took a microsecond to weigh up the consequences of my natural response - namely grabbing him by his tie and smashing his face into his keyboard whilst shouting “NO I DON’T HAVE YOUR FUCKING APP!” - and decided it (probably) wouldn’t be worth it. I told the guy I’d do it online, and then, because I had absolutely no intention of doing any such thing, went outside to the cash point, took out actual hard currency to the amount I owed my friend and took it back to his bank.
When I got there, there was a queue of what seemed like forty seven Chinese people, at least half of whom had toddlers in prams.
I went home.
It has since occurred to me that, in subtle ways, we’re all adding to the employment problems in this country.
Once upon a time, it would have been a natural assumption that there was someone at my bank who dealt with transferring money to other banks. These days, I’m expected to do it myself, having downloaded an app under my own initiative, despite the fact that I am probably the last person in the world who should ever be tasked with transferring money in any capacity. (A 2011 study of ‘people who shouldn’t be allowed to work in international banking’ placed me somewhere between Scrooge McDuck and Forrest Gump, which is also, curiously, how my Match.com profile described me…)
It’s the same when I go shopping. I tend to use the “self-service” till, out of a general disdain for other human beings, but it’s not faster, or easier, and it’s putting an actual person out of a job.
Much as the socialist in me wants everyone to be free and equal, I also think it’s important to have people who are working, and this may mean doing menial stuff for the rest of us.
So, if we really want to change something, why don’t we take a step back in time? Why don’t we refuse to do things for ourselves that someone else used to get paid to do for us?!
Is it possible? Is it finally time to acknowledge what I’ve long suspected? That being idle can save the world?!
The Lazy Revolution starts here. I’ll come up with a flag as soon as I can be bothered…
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