I don’t like to name names (Julian) when I’m bitching about the world or companies (Natwest), or where they are even (Lewisham High Street, Lewisham, SE13), but I feel like it would be fully justified if I did.
I was waiting in line for twenty minutes to pay my rent in front of a sighing and tutting leather trouser lady* and behind some guy who looked like a tramp Harold Shipman who kept snorting flem and then swallowing it again, complaining that the bank stole money (or interest as it would seem) off him – You’re a liar and you’re a horrible human being, Tramp Harold Shipman.
Afterwards, well dressed and slightly smug Julian approached me from behind and asked if I was happy with the service I had recieved in a very sexy French accent. I lied of course and told him it was just fine (well, I’m English of course I’m not fucking making a scene.)
He enquired to know whether I was aware I’m eligible for a credit card. I told him I was not aware. He told me I should get one. I politely disagreed. Upon his suprise that I wouldn’t like to take up his oh so exciting offer, he decided to gay it up a bit and do what they probably call in Natwest training circles as talking to the customer as a human being. “I think you’ll like this one, Mr. Wicks.” “Will I?” “Yes, it’s a good one.” How does this credit card differ from any other, in the way that I might like it? I mean actually enjoy it’s company… Does it just give me the money with a polite smile and a “don’t worry about paying it back, fella, besides, you deserve it”, whilst simultaneously giving me a handjob? I didn’t think so. Wierd bastard.
* Sighing and tutting lady strangely reminded me of a girl at school I’d totally forgotten about who we used to call ‘Chubby Legs McGruffy’. I don’t know why we called her that. Sorry Chubby Legs, never mean’t to offend.