Mike Carlton, in his weekly op-ed piece in the SMH, writes about an all too familiar [frustrating] scenario:
"In a moment of what I look back on now as wanton stupidity, I tried to ring the local branch of my bank the other day. A new PIN for a credit card was being sent there for me to collect.
To save an unnecessary trip, I wanted to make sure it had arrived.
No big deal, you would think. Look up number in phone book, call manager, ask question, get answer. Simple as that.
But not any more. Not in this brave new world of the information technology revolution it isn't. It would have been easier trying to get through to the Pope.
For starters, they don't list the local branch numbers nowadays. Either that or the branches have abandoned telephones. You have to ring a main switchboard number and submit to being bossed around, interminably, by a tinny digital recording which assumes that you have an IQ struggling for double figures.
It would be unfair to name the bank here. So let's just call it the National Australia Bank. The tinny digital recording welcomed me with tinny digital insincerity, ordered me to press buttons for this "service" or that and then, after a disapproving silence, demanded to know my NAB identification number.
I was in the car, on the hands-free. Off the top of my head, I haven't a clue what my NAB identification number might be. I didn't even know I had one. Nor, for that matter, can I remember my Medicare number, driver's licence number, passport number, Qantas Frequent Flyer number, SCG membership number, Tax File Number, Australian Business Number, credit card numbers or any of the rest of the knee-deep litter of collected numerals that blight the lives of all of us in this day and age. Who on earth does?
It would require a morbid degree of anal retention.
When it discovered I was stuck for an answer, the tinny digital recording lost interest. So I hung up - and now here comes the act of true idiocy - I actually dialled again in the hope of a better result.
To cut a long story short, after a great deal more button punching I eventually got through to a humanoid, who, by the sound of it, was a 14-year-old work experience kid in Mumbai simultaneously engaged in eating a lamb rogan josh and giving his Sony PlayStation a workout.
Loftily informing me that he was from "Security," this personage demanded my name and date of birth and then, presumably disbelieving the answer, wanted to know the outstanding balance on my credit card.
" I don't carry my entire banking history around with me," I retorted with what I hoped was withering sarcasm. "Do you ?"
"Yes," replied the dwarf, unwithered.
At that point I lost it. This madness had taken half an hour of my life. At the age of 62, every 20 minutes is precious.
Goaded beyond rage, I fired off a salvo of four-letter profanity and gave up. But I do hope they recorded the call "for training purposes," as they threatened. Stuff 'em."
"In a moment of what I look back on now as wanton stupidity, I tried to ring the local branch of my bank the other day. A new PIN for a credit card was being sent there for me to collect.
To save an unnecessary trip, I wanted to make sure it had arrived.
No big deal, you would think. Look up number in phone book, call manager, ask question, get answer. Simple as that.
But not any more. Not in this brave new world of the information technology revolution it isn't. It would have been easier trying to get through to the Pope.
For starters, they don't list the local branch numbers nowadays. Either that or the branches have abandoned telephones. You have to ring a main switchboard number and submit to being bossed around, interminably, by a tinny digital recording which assumes that you have an IQ struggling for double figures.
It would be unfair to name the bank here. So let's just call it the National Australia Bank. The tinny digital recording welcomed me with tinny digital insincerity, ordered me to press buttons for this "service" or that and then, after a disapproving silence, demanded to know my NAB identification number.
I was in the car, on the hands-free. Off the top of my head, I haven't a clue what my NAB identification number might be. I didn't even know I had one. Nor, for that matter, can I remember my Medicare number, driver's licence number, passport number, Qantas Frequent Flyer number, SCG membership number, Tax File Number, Australian Business Number, credit card numbers or any of the rest of the knee-deep litter of collected numerals that blight the lives of all of us in this day and age. Who on earth does?
It would require a morbid degree of anal retention.
When it discovered I was stuck for an answer, the tinny digital recording lost interest. So I hung up - and now here comes the act of true idiocy - I actually dialled again in the hope of a better result.
To cut a long story short, after a great deal more button punching I eventually got through to a humanoid, who, by the sound of it, was a 14-year-old work experience kid in Mumbai simultaneously engaged in eating a lamb rogan josh and giving his Sony PlayStation a workout.
Loftily informing me that he was from "Security," this personage demanded my name and date of birth and then, presumably disbelieving the answer, wanted to know the outstanding balance on my credit card.
" I don't carry my entire banking history around with me," I retorted with what I hoped was withering sarcasm. "Do you ?"
"Yes," replied the dwarf, unwithered.
At that point I lost it. This madness had taken half an hour of my life. At the age of 62, every 20 minutes is precious.
Goaded beyond rage, I fired off a salvo of four-letter profanity and gave up. But I do hope they recorded the call "for training purposes," as they threatened. Stuff 'em."
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