I have a confession. This is something that, for many years, only my wife has known: I am a lifelong bank-phobe.
At this point, anyone who has read my work might very well ask… what the hell? I am, after all, a former banking correspondent. A former financial correspondent. At one point, I had the grandiose title of financial services editor.
This means that I’ve spent a good chunk of my career in and around banks, speaking to bankers and bank CEOs, spending time in their august company, breaking bread and sharing drinks with them. I’ve also taken them on and criticised them in print, harshly, without fear or favour. I’ve had rows with their PR people who don’t like this. Water off a duck’s back.
But we separate the professional from the personal, don’t we? Well, most of us do. Crime correspondents don’t tend to participate in armed robbery. Political writers don’t become MPs, with one or two notable exceptions which, let’s be honest, haven’t worked out too well.
In my case, this means I should always deal with my financial admin. Instead, bank statements always, but always, got put on the mail pile until my long-suffering wife would roll her eyes and do the necessary.
Over the years, this avoidance has reached quite ridiculous levels, but whoever said phobias make sense? Irrational is part of the definition. An example: we switched banks a while back, and I still haven’t activated my debit card.
How do I pay for stuff? I have a credit card that I’ve used for so long that I’m almost comfortable with it. Almost.
Paying the bill still requires me to psych myself up first. That’s not because I’m a profligate spender – beyond an addiction to vinyl records, which I’m starting to have doubts about, given the way prices have been going. It is the process of paying the bill that causes me the problem, not the bill itself.
I know, I know. I’ve written columns urging people who do get into trouble with their cards – and this is very easy if your provider keeps increasing your limit without being asked, as mine does – or other borrowings to contact their bank. It is the smart move, and they have got a lot better at helping distressed borrowers, largely as a result of pressure from politicians and regulators. You can always call Citizens Advice first.
However, I also understand and empathise with people who resist. It’s the fear. The sheer abject terror these institutions instil.
In my case, this partly stems from the periods of relative poverty I endured while growing up in a single-parent household; living in social housing, qualifying for free school meals, wearing hand-me-downs and suchlike. The school meals were particularly nasty because we were quite literally singled out, so everyone knew exactly who the poor kids were. A lack of money leaves a mark.
The second reason is running out of money while studying. This wasn’t uncommon. I had friends in the same boat, but they had more sympathetic banks. My branch had Ms Nice and Ms Not-so-nice. I happened upon Ms Not-so-nice on the day of my appointment to arrange an overdraft. She said, “No”. On balance, this was probably a good thing, and I ultimately found a way through because necessity is the mother of invention. I didn’t commit a crime, but I did get a part-time job. However, the stress of those days spent working out how I was going to eat has stayed with me.
The final problem is that most banks are huge bureaucracies that can be horribly difficult to deal with, especially if you catch someone like my “computer says no” person at university.
My family has been dealing with state bureaucracies of one kind or another for many years because of the disabilities my son and I deal with.
Needless to say, this is like pulling out your teeth with a pair of rusty pliers. It is a sisyphean exercise to get them to so much as lift a finger. Local councils, the various branches of the NHS, you name it. The same rot afflicts them all. Note to politicians: if you want to rescue your miserable reputation, do something about the fact that the word “service” has all but vanished from public services. They spend more time, energy, and even money on saying “no” than they do on doing their jobs.
I once damaged my wrist punching a wall because I’d got so wired while interacting with a hospital, one boasting of its inclusive patient-centred approach, whose procedures seemed designed to prevent anyone with disabilities from accessing care.
Then you have the banks with all those frustrating security hoops, phone menus and hours wasted hanging on the telephone before you speak to someone. And when you do get through, banks often aren’t any more helpful than the NHS at its worst. The prospect of speaking to mine makes my brain shut down. No, no. It melts down. It feels like trying to climb the Matterhorn in shorts, a Metallica T-shirt and a pair of Crocs.
My wife tells me that our new bank is quite good – I did my homework when choosing it – and writing this has me thinking: perhaps it’s time to scale that mountain and to apply some of the techniques taught to me by my therapist for dealing with my post-road-accident episodes of PTSD to finances.
But I confess, I’ll probably put it off until tomorrow. If you do that too – and I get the impression that I’m far from alone – I’m not going to judge. I know where you’re coming from.
