Low Life | 3 January 2009

Three missed calls. Two answer phone messages. The bank manager. He needed to see me. Would I make an appointment and come in to see him as soon as possible? His tone of voice suggested it was a matter of some urgency. Had some energetic, enterprising person fraudulently obtained my password or pin number and cleaned out my overdraft facility, I wondered?

Normally I don’t need to have anything to do with the bank manager. A couple of years ago, however, this current one’s predecessor had smartly intercepted me on my way out of his bank and offered to lend me money. He led me into an office, candidly confessed that a recent change in the bank’s ethos now meant that he was little more than a glorified loan shark, and said how much would I like? Was there anything I wanted to buy?  A new car perhaps? Surely a long-haul holiday wouldn’t go amiss? 

I liked the young man’s open, cheerful style and borrowed ten grand, I think it was. I forget what the interest rate was, but I vaguely remember that the bottom line was that by the end of the loan period I’d have paid back double the amount. At the time I was glad to pay off a few of my more pressing debts and look around for a new laptop. Looking back on it now, however, and knowing what I know now — that if I’d wanted to, and I’d looked around, I could have borrowed up to five times my annual salary on the strength of being able to produce a recent gas bill — I reckon I must have needed my head examining.

When I turned up at the bank the next day the manager showed me into a joyless office, waved me into a seat, and logged on to the computer on the desk.