“We cannot send it if it does not have an Iban number, it is obligatory,” were, sadly, the very words that I did not want hear. I expressed my frustration, yet again; referring to their initial acceptance of the form only to now to question its validity.
“I shall explain, one last time the magnitude of this transaction. With this money I am buying a French property. This money must be in the lawyers account before I can purchase the house. I am leaving for France on Monday morning before this bank opens. I must complete this transaction immediately. As I understand it I cannot move the money after 4.00pm. It is now three minutes past! Do you really comprehend why I am very annoyed, totally confused, definitely jacked off!”
“We cannot send it without the Iban number its’ obligatory!” was their ill-timed reply.
“If I gave you my Iban number is there still time today to complete?”
“Yes sir.”
That was all I needed to hear, so after painful embarrassing, exchanges with the untrained monkeys on the front desk everything was going to be ‘champion’. Or was it? Of course not! The tap from the office window was Brenda who informed Carol that there had been ‘some sort of difficulty’ with the transfer. The Iban number had not been recognised.
Please, fuck me with the roughest, sharpest, knarled, infected, angry bramble bush from the Highlands of Scotland because it can’t be any more painful!
Carol timidly disappeared into the back room. Curiously, the other worthless cretins, who were the instigators of my troubles, slowly gathered outside the office to witness my ‘melt down’. Until I gazed up from my mantra, to shatter the silence of the bank, with, “Have you moronic useless numpties nothing better to do? Just go away and screw someone else’s life up!”
They, too, evaporated sheepishly into the flock wallpaper. An excruciating 30 minutes later Sandra returned with the excellent news that it was the original ‘notaires’ form had been rejected not mine. There is a God. Better news arrived later when she informed me that I would not suffer any charges, if I incur any French charges they would also be taken care of by Nat West. She then described how she would monitor the progress of the transaction, reassuringly stating that over the next few days it would be rigorously monitored.
I left the bank at 5.40pm a little happier.
The difficulties of my afternoon are nothing compared with the problems of the Doc. The Oak is sadly dieing: all week there has only been a meagre ‘turnout’, many regulars appear to have jumped ship in search of consistent beers, alternative more comfortable smoking pits. Even so, I have a strong determination to see it through, if nothing else, because of loyalty. Santus is weaving his undermining slimy propaganda of untruths; as a result people are becoming twitchy. Not me, or Jo, it is only bilge rats who leave the ship first. Everyone has enjoyed the warmth and sometimes craziness of the Oak, they should stand fast in days of adversity. These gutless turncoats should remember the community that the pub has engendered; true friends never slope away deviously somewhat cowardly. Why not support, enthuse, attempt to generate more business: give the Doc a lift, instead of bailing out. I am so glad that the Santus was not around in 1939.
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