On Thursday I transferred some money online from HSBC to my credit union account. No joy - Friday came and I was still broke. I called up HSBC (which, if you’re interested, henceforth stands for His Satanic Bastard Conglomerate) and they primly asked me for my ‘transaction reference number’. Now collecting these numbers is actually one of the few organised things I actually do, so I went to seek it out. Naturally for the first time ever, I had recorded everything about the transaction except for the reference number. Teeth gritted, face beet-ed, I said I would live on rice for the weekend and in the meantime would try…again.

On Thursday I transferred some money online from HSBC to my credit union account. Now it’s Monday. Still no money. But this time I had the transaction reference number and rang His Satanic Bastard Conglomerate rigid with righteous fury. I became one of those people who used to haunt me when I worked at call centres. I would not be placated, I would not be put off, and most importantly… I would not hang up. Ever. So I waited. I refused to give them my number so a supervisor could call me back when one became available. During one of the interminable hold periods, the ever-polite David finally ceased insisting that my transaction didn’t exist (but that if I wanted him to do it for me now, that was fine, though there would be a FEE involved… gah) and spoke to the onsite internet guru (his words). Guru found my non-existent transaction waiting in line to be fixed. Which was just great - if they could have just let me know that it needed to be ‘fixed’ in the first place, I may have been slightly more amenable.

Finally, after about 30 minutes, what it came down to was that they had a problem with the BSB number I had provided for my credit union account. This is despite the fact that I had provided it on the phone last Friday when I called to make sure that the transaction was not going to get ‘lost’ or ‘misplaced’. And they had said it was ‘fine’. So they have ‘a problem’ with the BSB number that hundreds of other banks use successfully everyday, they also have ‘a problem’ with numerous and unrelated petrol stations; when you try to buy your petrol using your card, the machine rejects it and you are left feeling humiliated and scrambling for that other tool of satan…the mastercard. (Naturally the question now arises… why do I bank with them? It’s for one reason only. They have totally free EFTPOS. And for the million and three trips to Bunnings while renovating to tiny budget, this is a good thing. This was a good thing.)

They tell me to call the credit union and then… make the transaction again. What they mean is, ‘we’re going to palm it off to the other party that’s involved and you may try, if you have the patience, to transfer your money FOR THE THIRD TIME. So I call the credit union. I speak to a nice person. She says that the BSB I’m using is fine, everyone uses it. Then her voice drops lower and she confides that there is in existence another, secret BSB number for those crap banks that can’t get their acts together. She tells me what it is.

Once I get off the phone for the first time since arriving at work, I decide that I am not going to give His Satanic Bastard Conglomerate another chance. I have bills to pay that I need to sort out today, and more to the point, I have no money. (Well, I do have some money, but it’s my sisters and I don’t want to use it.) I strap on my Uzi and gather my hand grenades and set off, sturdy of gait, stout of heart, and with jaw resolutely set. I head for the city branch. I storm-trooper my way in through the convieniently responsive automatic doors. I stride down to the back of the bank, become disoriented, and decide, sulkily, to line up for a teller. The tide turns. I get Teller of the Year. I tell her all the angst her bank has been causing me, show her my famous transaction reference number, give her my drivers license and say, with trembling lips, ‘My card is in Queensland and I have to withdraw this money. Please….please be the one brave enough to end this vicious charade of customer service. Blight it bluntly to the ground!’

It only took about seven minutes. It was extraordinary. This transaction was something I’d been sweating on for days, and Teller of the Year didn’t even perspire. And she gave me $20 extra… I’m not sure whether this was her way of commiserating with my suffering or it was just a mistake, either way, I felt vindicated. I took my money over to the post office, deposited it into my credit card account via the wondrous GiroPost and there it sits. Ready to be eaten by my debtors. I have organised for my pay to NEVER go into the His Satanic Bastard Conglomerate account again, and hopefully I will be able to close the account at some rosy point in my future. Banks suck. Use a credit union.