Of course, he is totally wrong on that point, but if he were right, that would mean today was a bad day for me.
Over the years, I’ve not had the best of luck with my Visa and debit cards, regularly misplacing them, or discovering them in an unusable condition, having been sat on as they rested in my pocket.
Over this past week, my brand new Visa card has been rejected a number of times, when I put it into the cashier’s machine.
On the first few occasions, I vigorously cleaned it on my sleeve, breathing on it for extra cleanliness, with no luck.
This morning it happened again. Smiling at the petrol station cashier, and those in the queue, I did the walk of shame out to my car, where luckily I’d another working card.
I’d had enough. So off to the bank I stomped, ready to do battle.
As I waited in line, I rehearsed my speech. However, when I got to the cashier, what came out was a lot less revolutionary than what I had rehearsed.
I found myself saying “excuse me” and “thank you” over and over. Was she interested? Embarrassed on my behalf? Empathetic? Not one bit of her. Instead, she directed me towards a telephone.
I was disgusted. What was the world coming to? Here I was, with my very embarrassing problem, caused by this very same bank, and she sends me to speak to a voice in a phone!
Over I go to “The Voice” where I explain what has been happening. A genius of a gentleman, with a rather strong Irish accent, tells me I used the card last week so everything must be OK with it.
I tell him he is indeed correct, but that it was also this very morning, refused in the petrol station.
Unfortunately, with The Voice’s strong accent and the large number of customers in the bank, I struggled to hear him clearly. I had to “beg his pardon” on more than one occasion, which I don’t think endeared me to him. He began to speak as if I were a moron.
“Can…you…read... me... the…number…on…the...card?” he asked.
“Yes... I ... can...” I replied, more than happy to join his little game.
I read out the number as best I could, struggling a little as I’m not yet ready to admit to the world I need glasses. He repeated the number and I agreed, still guessing most of the numbers.
Next was the expiry date. I blinked a number of times staring at it. Oh no, please say it’s my eyesight. Expiry, May 2014. The Voice was repeating, rather impatiently, “Can... you... give…me…the... expiry... date...please?”.
My face flushed, my heart quickened. Pox this was my old card!
I was keenly aware of the large queue close by, who had nothing better to do but listen to my drama. I tapped on the phone a number of times.
“Hello? Hello?” I shouted over The Voice. “I’m sorry this line is very bad. What? Excuse me? I’m afraid I can’t hear you.” And then I hung up, rather dramatically, as if auditioning for the part in a play.
Turning around I faced my audience, shook my head and threw my eyes heavenward, “Ridiculous,” I said, and hurriedly left.
So now I am home and frantically searching for my real Visa card. I’m not sure if I lost it, or if it’s in one of its many usual hiding places.
I’d ask Himself if he knew where it was, but then I’d have to tell him about my small mistake this morning. What’s the likelihood of that ever happening?