This is a true story. I have it on sound authority and I have verified it personally. The elderly, sedate gentleman walks into one of the high street banks in central London. I am asked to accompany him. His innocent mission? To instruct the bank to adjust the records and to start sending him all correspondence to his new address. He produces copies of letters sent to his old address. The obliging clerk asks him to put down the new address. Which he writes. The clerk asks him to produce any official document with his photo. The man shows various credit cards and other printed cards but, unfortunately, none with a photo.
The bank employee then picks up the phone and speaks to someone on the other end of the line. The receiver is then transferred to my companion. I am allowed to overhear. The person on the other end gives his first name and explains he has to ask a number of security questions. Date of birth next birthday? The last three digits of your telephone number? Your mother’s maiden name? After these and a couple of others, the handset is returned to the bank clerk. She apologises profusely. Unfortunately, my friend has not satisfied the security check.
Please call again and produce your passport or driving licence or any other official document with your photo included. We both acknowledge and walk away not a little perplexed.
Out of curiosity more than camaraderie, the next day I dutifully turn up with my newly-acquired friend. He shows the visiting card the bank employee had given him. A few minutes of waiting. The clerk approaches and directs us to one of her colleagues – “so as not to keep you waiting longer. I am attending to a customer opening a new account. My colleague has been briefed”.
We move to a new desk. The passport is produced. Visually scanned. The clerk reaches for the telephone. Describes what has been established as regards physical identity. The handset is then transferred to my friend. I could overhear the same security questions. All seemed to go smoothly. Until... Until my friend explained the new address was in Malta.
The man from the call centre at the other end of the line, crisp and polite, sounded perplexed. “Where is Malta? Is it a country? I can’t find it.”
My friend, whose command of English and British humour is not in question, gives the exact geographical location of the Republic of Malta. “Ah, yes, yes I have found it. Sorry for this. Thank you for your patience. Everything seems to be in order now. You will be receiving all communications at your new address. Good day.” The handset is returned to the clerk.
We rise and leave, out into the falling snow. The ordeal to change an address at the end of the first decade of the 21st century is only a matter of days away having been overcome.
It took the trifling matter about two hours, two visits to the bank, two fairly long telephone calls and a substantial amount of patience and good humour.