I went to use my uk bank card today, and realized it had expired (oops). that means i’ll be trekking on over to my friendly bank branch to try and sort it out. which reminds me of the trouble i went to get my uk bank account in the first place. i was living in london for graduate school at the time (2004), and after the whole ordeal of getting a bank account was finally finished, i sent my family the following report (edited/polished since then). some of you have read this before, but it took me forever to find my copy of it (not sure where i saved/posted it originally), so i’ve put it on here for my sake as well as, i hope, your reading pleasure.

There are always several things you need when applying for a bank account anywhere, and I figured England would be about the same. I thought it would be best to call NatWest (the foreign student’s bank of choice) and double-check on all the things I would need. The lady on the phone was lovely, and scheduled me an appointment to open what’s called a Step Account. Some sort of simple savings account, apparently. It’s the only thing available to persons who haven’t lived in the UK for more than 3 years (and NatWest seems to be the only bank who offers any service to persons of that description), but it really sounded perfect for what I needed.

“Just bring your passport and proof of address,” she said, “like a utility bill.”

“Oh, I’m in the dorms; I don’t have any bills,” I told her, getting a little apprehensive. I was no stranger to the English rigidity with this kind of thing. The lady paused, I could mentally see her trying to decide just how apocalyptic this news was. I thought quickly: “Can I bring a letter from the university verifying my official address?”

“Oh, sure, that’s fine.” She sounded as relieved as I felt. I made an appointment with her.

Perfect.

The next day, I got dressed up and sauntered down the high street to the local NatWest Branch. I walked in, joined the abysmally long queue and waited and waited to be helped. Finally I got to the front, and I told them I had a 2:00 appointment; I asked what I should I do.

“Oh, you go upstairs for appointments,” the man at the desk instructed me, gesturing towards said stairs. Fair enough. I did so. There was another queue there, and I joined it. And waited and waited. Eyed the coffee dispenser and Styrofoam cups, but decided against caffeine. And  waited.

After a while, I made it to the front of the line, and I told the receptionist that I had had a 2:00 appointment. It was past 2:00 already, but not due to any fault of mine. I told him about the phone call I had had the day before.

“Oh, hm,” he said. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. You don’t make appointments for Step Accounts. You just bring the paperwork in, and we file it for you. You’ll have to wait to see someone.” Okay. More waiting. I felt a little exasperated, but nothing desperate. The man was still talking: “Let me just check and see if you have the right paperwork.”

I had brought every possible piece of paper I had affirming that I (a) was who I said I was, (b) was studying in London, and (c) that my dorm was assigned and very official university housing. I also had a piece of regular mail addressed to me at my dorm. Just in case.

I showed him everything, but he barely looked over it. With only a moment’s consideration he said, “Nope. That’s not what we need. We need a RES letter from your house. Ask them, they’ll know. And then just come back when you get that and we’ll process you.” He said “pr-oh-cess” not “pr-ah-cess,” and he had a nice smile. I sighed, but smiled back. And off I went.

That was Wednesday. I returned to the front office at my dorm, repeated the story, and asked for a RES letter. They said no problem; they knew exactly what it was, etc. I was advised to check back the next afternoon.

Two weeks later, I finally got the RES letter. The receptionist handed the letter to me, apologizing a few times for its delay, and I scanned it quickly. Only to find that they had misspelled my name. When I pointed it out, the receptionist agreed that it might be a problem. But she wasn’t responsible for RES letters. Another girl was. Come back tomorrow. Okay, no problem. I did so. Not ready. So sorry. Come back tomorrow? All right. I gave them a few days and then came back. Not done. So sorry. Could you wait a few minutes, we’ll correct it now? Thanks. Another week had passed.

Three weeks after my first date with NatWest, I was finally set to open an account. And the clock was ticking. I had my first day of work in three days, and I couldn’t get put on payroll until I had a UK bank account. I had been a little anxious, but was feeling relieved that morning at last. I grabbed my passport, my corrected RES letter and my keys. And my student ID just in case. And some samples of mail. Again, just in case.

I was feeling chipper, and strangely excited. Maybe I wasn’t exactly a European banker now, with accounts in Switzerland and so forth, but I could feel myself inching towards that status. I strolled down the familiar route to the Camden Town NatWest Branch.

Which had flooded severely the night before. And was indefinitely closed.

No aneurysm yet. But a clear moment of panic and frustration. The sign on the bank door instructed patrons to use King’s Cross Branch, and since I seemed to have no other choice, I headed that way. That far-far-far-away way; King’s Cross Branch was across town from where I lived. Well, it probably was. In actuality, I knew nothing about King’s Cross, aside from the train/tube station, but I figured even the English wouldn’t call a bank “King’s Cross Branch” and locate it too far from the infamous train station with the same name. So I wandered around, asked for directions all over the place and finally stumbled across The Bank.

Where there was, of course, a queue and I waited. I thought I was feeling okay – a little anxious, but still self-controlled. Finally it was my turn and I approached the counter.

“I’d like to talk to someone about opening a Step Account.” I said, bracing myself for their response.

“Sure, do you have your papers?” the clerk asked. I stared at him, blankly probably. “Miss? Do you have your papers?” he repeated, confused by my stare.

“Oh, right, yes!” I handed them to him. “Sorry, I thought you were going to say more. It’s been a bit of a long day.”

He gave me a funny look and then turned his attention to the paperwork. He skimmed it, and then flipped through a few pages again. At last he looked up, doubtfully: “I don’t think this will work; is it official letterhead? And you also need a letter of admissions from the university and….”

And I was weeping. I was standing in the middle of the bank, with tears streaming down my face.

“Perhaps we should go to the back office,” he offered quietly. I followed, grateful and fairly mortified.

“What’s happened?” he asked once we sat down. He seemed, just for that moment, very human. But it passed.

I told him what happened. I told him that I usually bank at Camden Town but its flooded and this is the RES letter I was given and I’ve forgotten my admissions offer and nothing is wrong, I am just exhausted and I am fine. I was silently praying there would be a tissue in my purse because I had started to think there was not, and I was getting more and more mortified. But there was a tissue, and I (literally) thanked God for it.

He rose and went to check to see what, if anything, could be done with the papers I had brought; I tried to clean myself up, and breathed a sigh of relief for tear-proof mascara. In a world as unpredictable as mine, it is nice to know there are some things you can always count on. He returned a few moments later, and said that the letters I had all looked dodgy (not to him, of course, but they might to other officials). He pointed out that I could have printed those papers on my own printer. Like I had time. Especially between all the trekking-back-and-forth-to-the-bank I’d had to do. Like I even wanted a NatWest STEP account that badly. I mean, really, if I were going to forge, I’d get a Platinum account at Barclay’s, wouldn’t I?

He suggested that I go back to the dorm office, get everything officially stamped, and come back with that and my letter of admissions. Because that would expedite the process. And, no, he’s sorry, but they can’t accept either of my student ID cards (my university issues two cards so that you can’t fake being a student); they have to have the letter of admissions. And also, could I get the RES letter re-written/re-issued to include my entire address (not just the house/hall building)? Would I mind? Get it all stamped with the official stamp, too, he suggested – just to be safe.

All right, I said. I left. I was crying again and people were staring and I made a furious face at a woman I walked past. I did feel a bit better then.

Somehow I made it back home in one piece; I ate something light and made my way back to the office. I told Alicia (the receptionist, who I was getting to know quite well) what needed to be done. She was aghast.

“They always take this letter. It’s standard.”

“It’s not the Camden Branch,” I explained, completely impatient with Alicia’s indignation. “It’s flooded. This is King’s Cross.”

She muttered and told me to wait a second. I waited, and she re-typed the letter.

But they had lost their official stamp. Some time ago, actually, and she wasn’t quite sure why it hadn’t been replaced. I’d have to go campus (across town) and get the Residence Office to stamp it.

Of course I would.

I headed out again. But the Residence Office didn’t have an official University logo stamp; all they had was a generic stamp. I took it anyway, but they suggested that I try the Registrar’s Office – just to be safe. Of course.

I trekked across campus.

There was no queue at the Registrar’s Office, and I was incredibly thankful. I explained my day to the clerk, and asked him to stamp everything. He looked at me.

“The letter is printed on official letterhead, stationer’s paper,” he explained.

“I know. They still want a stamp.”

“The paper has the official watermark,” he repeated.

“I know. They still want a stamp,” I repeated.

“But the official watermark is proof itself.”

“I know. They still want a stamp.”

“Why are they so picky?”

“I really couldn’t say.” I didn’t even bother to conjecture.

He looked at my pieces of paper. “Well, we can stamp the letters of admission. Because they are from our office.” He looked skeptically at the RES letter. “But that’s not from our office.” As if it he were accusing it of some crime.

“Can’t you just stamp it?” I asked. “I just want a bank account.”

He paused, looked at the letter again, then back at me, glanced over his shoulder and around, smiled, took the papers and stamped them all. A truly magnificent person.

I got back on the tube, went back to the bank, stood back in the queue. Waited. Waited. And waited. Longer than any other queue so far. And of course, it was nearly the bank’s closing time.

The same guy who had helped me earlier came in; I was in back of the line, but he saw me and pulled me aside. He looked through my papers, looked at my application, looked at my passport, and ushered me to the back room again.

Everything seemed to be okay. He reviewed my application and then stopped.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, handing the form back to me. “You’ll have to fill out a new application. See here? You’ve written that you want to call this account [you get to pick a nickname for the account] ‘UK Savings Account’. It’s not a Savings account. It’s a Step.”

I nearly vomited. It’s a nickname. I’m pretty sure that the idea is that the customer can call it whatever she wants so that she can remember what account it is. “OK, fine, cross out Savings,” I spewed. “Just call it UK Account.”

“Oh no, Miss,” his tone became deadly serious. “They can’t process applications with crossed-out lines.” Because that’s a new form of rocket science. “You’ll have to do a new one. And, please, could you not use lower case—”

“All block capitals,” I interrupted hostilely. I curbed the urge to scribble in all block capitals across his forehead.

I really shouldn’t have been surprised. I’d had no indications yet that I was dealing with intelligent, efficient life-forms. I took a deep breath, and nodded.

Ok, fine. I started the new application. I was frustrated, angry, irritated and exhausted. He left me alone for a few minutes while I attacked the paperwork. Filling it out, filling it out, and then I accidentally signed the “print your name here” line. NO! No, no, no!

I took my stack of papers to him. “I signed the wrong line,” I explained. “If that’s a problem, then it’s really okay, just forget it. I can’t do it again. I don’t want to mess with this anymore. I’ll just do without a bank account here.” I began packing my stuff up.

But oh, now, it was no problem. Cross it out, no worries. They’re here to help, you know. Doing their best, you know. They’ll process my account right away (you know). It will take five da…

Oh wait, he remembered. Usually it takes five days, but they are really backed up now because of (something I didn’t quite catch), so it might take up to two weeks.

Of course it would.