It was definitely not the best of days and absolutely the worst of days. Covid had entered the family for the second time, an extended family member had died, a relentless journalist friend had paid lengthy Facebook obituary tributes to well-kent faces, a neighbour was taken to hospital with a suspected mini stroke. One felt the black dog hovering. And then a real dog endowed the front garden with an unwanted present.
Normally, one would have been enraged but this dog was different. Lithe, medium-sized, and missing one hind leg, it bounded off almost joyfully after relieving itself. And the sight of three legs in harmonious action did lift the heart. The world was not repaired but felt a shade restored. Suddenly, sunshine and a not too vicious wind suggested that a family walk on a nearby beach would blow away the last of the blues.
It was a grand walk with clouds scudding over Arran’s mini mountains. There was firm sand, seaweed, seashells and very little plastic. As we started the short climb back up the dunes to our car, the bad blues were fading. Suddenly they were totally dispelled. Around a gaily decorated table, a jolly group of ladies were having a party. All of a respectable age, some wore flowers in their hair and all had brightly coloured clothing. They also sported rubber wet suits. They were the self-styled Swimmin Wimmin.
Every week since May, this group of West of Scotland ladies has been braving the waters of the Clyde. Rain, snow or shine they gather, swim and celebrate. We had chanced on a Halloween special so the jollity was dressier than usual but the principle was unchanged. Get out there and live a little. Doubtless, they would be embarrassed but they seemed inspirational to us. Politicians pontificate, the media rants and rumbles. Personal problems mount. But as Henry Miller explained when asked about the meaning of life: ‘life is for living’. The Swimmin Wimmin and a three-legged dog are doing that in spades. Bless them.
David Donald
Have you been to a bank recently? I mean a real, bricks and mortar building with windows and everything, containing furniture, machines and people? I had the misfortune in doing so last Friday. Strangely, it was the second Friday in succession that I had to visit. Last week it was to pay an old fashioned cheque into my account. This week, it was to deposit a small amount of cash. I wish I hadn’t bothered.
On entering the branch, I was met with what ostensibly felt like a lovely warm and welcoming greeting along the lines of ,Hi, can I help you?, which in my naivety, I took at face value. Only later did I come to suspect that I had been set an existential conundrum in receiving this question. However, still believing this person to be on my side and not indulging in some philosophical gamesmanship, I responded that my (albeit reluctant) visit was on the pretext of depositing some cash into my account. I was directed to one of a pair of ATMs which sat prominently just inside the door. I was then asked if needed any help, to which I replied that I was reasonably confident I knew the drill.
With a smile, I was ushered to what I will call machine number 1. However, when I worked my way through the authorisation process, PIN, etc, said ATM would not allow me to enter cash as only cheques would be accepted as deposit. The ‘floor staff’ who had initially welcomed me, on seeing this, seemed to then have some kind of memory recall. ‘Of course, that machine was stuck’ (their words, not mine and I am assuming referring to some kind of failure of technical wizardry that we non-bank types would not be able to understand).
On to ATM number 2. This time I got a bit further and was able to feed the cash in through the deposit function, only for one of the notes to be rejected. I was advised to try again. Several failed attempts later, I gave up on this venture, accepting that the renegade note was not going to make it through the process. Closing the transaction with the accepted notes, I mentioned the failure to the bank staff member who had welcomed me and guided me so far. I was given the bizarre explanation that the note would have had, most probably, a bend or kink in it and that would be the reason for the rejection. I could not stop myself from pointing out that just about every note deposited through the ATM would have similar issues. I know I should by then have probably expected it, but I was bewildered that instead of showing their understanding of my frustration, they decided to add to it by exclaiming, simply, that they ‘were not able to overwrite the process’ and I should now go to the counter to pay in the residual amount.
I joined the small queue and noticed I was next up. Turns out that the person at the vacant window was not in fact dealing with customers. I think they may have just been there to add to the tension. The original ‘helper’ and a colleague appeared at this point, clustered around the stands advertising the various, alleged services the bank provide and seemed to be enjoying themselves if the laughter was anything to go by.
I was finally called by the ‘working’ teller, successfully deposited the errant note and was advised that the problem I had experienced was known. Also, that plans were in the pipeline to fix the issue by adjusting the ATMs sensitivity. At last, it felt like some positivity, however, using football parlance, ‘it definitely went against the run of play’. I also had to stop myself from suggesting they might consider the same sensitivity adjustment for some members of staff.
On leaving, I was informed by my friend who had remained outside looking after Daisy that members of staff had been popping in and out of the bank to advise potential users that the outside ATM was out of money. I mean, you would have thought a sign on the terminal would suffice? Then again, they do appear very keen on providing good customer service.
Frank Eardley
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