How easily relative calm is
broken. One would suppose a simple transfer transaction online, an
action that I’ve regularly performed, would cause few if any
emotional problems. That presumption proved false yesterday morning.
Owing to malfunction of a security device I had to use an alternative
method of logging on; so far all was well until I was informed that
the alternative access method would shortly be phased out.
My
next action was to use live chat, to find out how I could obtain a
replacement security device. Two methods were available but I opted
for a simple telephone call, via which I could obtain a replacement
within five working days. Having been requested, by a disembodied
voice, to input sort code, account number, my date of birth etc;
which information I happily supplied, I was suddenly thrown when they
asked me to input digits from my telephone banking password. As I
don’t do telephone banking, I was unable to oblige. After holding
for a considerable time I was put through to a distant call centre
(presumably somewhere on the South Asian sub-continent) and was
relieved to hear a real human voice!
I
immediately informed the human, at the other end of the line, that I
don’t do telephone banking but I was given their number to request
a replacement secure key. At first this seemed to be going well until
they requested I input a digit from the aforementioned telephone
banking password. Talk about going round in circles; a short while
later having given further security info, she requested that I
confirm a favourite quote, place etc; and some other information, the
spoken words of which I was unable to decipher. By now I’d reached
breaking point; I explained that I was of a certain age and suffering
from a chronic health condition and all I wanted was a replacement
device. My beloved, noticing my distress took over the call and,
without any further questions being asked was informed that the
requested device would be despatched to me.
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