Pass me my blood pressure pills

Johannesburg, 31 Oct 2006

The problem with cars is that they need constant maintenance. Mine, I've been told, will need a new clutch shortly. So, I meander down to the nearest auto parts shop on a Saturday, and endeavour to acquire a clutch.

Paying for the rather essential part turned out to be a bit tricky. (Driving without a clutch is doable, but not fun.) Finally arriving at the front of the queue with my clutch stuck firmly under my arm, I whisk out my cheque card, only to be told that the machine now wants authorisation.

No hassle, says I, and whip out the credit card - the same payment option that is causing Reserve Bank governor Tito Mboweni to pull his hair out in frustration. I pay, I leave, I go home.

But not all is plain sailing - it never seems to go that way for me. A few days later - by now close to payday - I notice a slight discrepancy in the cash I can take out of the bank, and the cash that is theoretically in the bank.

It took me four - four - trips to several branches to find out that they had ring-fenced the clutch amount. It should have automatically cleared, they say, but now I must go back into the branch and fill in a form. Please note: I was unable to ascertain this information online.

Faster service online?

Again I brave the four-way-stop-street-of-death and sit in another queue. With my temperature rising again, I'm told that what I was told before was inaccurate. Seems that tellers are liars, I comment.

So, we get that resolved rather quickly - I think the steam venting out of my ears helped. While I am there, I ask for them to move my accounts and I order a new chequebook, pondering why in the information age we need them at all.

Intelligently, I cross out the name of my ex-branch and write in the name of the new one. And just as intelligently, in-contact sends me an SMS saying the book is at the wrong branch.

Livid, I log on to FNB's home page, and leave a rude and sarcastic message. I then brave the stop-street-of-death and sit in a queue. Minutes pass like sands through the hourglass.... I get up; write a ruder message in their visitor's book and leave.

Amazingly, they call, three times. The branch manager assures me he will personally get in his car and go to Sandton to collect said chequebook. That was on Friday. I am, dear manager, still waiting.

Ironically, a few minutes after this, my online message prompts a call. Blissfully ignorant that I would still be waiting, I assure the ever-so-polite personage on the end of the line that my troubles have been resolved.

If only I had known.