The bank called ING

I chose to open a bank account at ING. Well, I say ‘chose’, what I actually mean is that ING have an office directly opposite mine, therefore ING offered me the only chance to open a bank account which did not require a bus journey, time off work, and another chance to stockpile resentment in order to open it.

Before opening the bank account I had been reliably informed that banks in Luxembourg do not open on the weekends, and are in fact available to provide banking services only Monday-Friday 9am to 6pm, the time when most people who can make use of their services are at work. What did they do, I thought, before internet banking? Presumably not a great deal. Just like estate agents: available only during the hours in which the individuals who have the means to make use of their services are at work. It’s a conspiracy to make me piss my holiday allowance down the drain, I’m telling you.

I duly arrived at ING one lunch break, and was told by a man behind a plate glass window that I had to go to the caravan just opposite. I walked towards what looked an awful lot like a branded festival portapotty, went inside and sat down behind a vase full of easter eggs in ING colours and a man with a terrible black eye. The black-eyed man had an ING-branded pen on an ING pen-holder around his neck, and an ING polo shirt, name-badge, belt and mouse-mat.

I sat down in front of his desk, thinking to myself ‘Don’t stare at his black eye, don’t stare at his black eye, don’t..’

‘Oui?’ he said.

‘What happened to your eye?’

‘Quoi?’

‘Ton Oeuil – qu’est-ce-qui c’est passez?’

‘Je peux vous aider, mademoiselle ?’

‘I’d like to open a bank account. Une compte de banque. To put money in and that’

‘Identification?’

I pulled out my passport, and a copy of my employment contract which HR had helpfully warned me that I would need.

‘You liv urr?’

‘Yes’

‘You want credit card?’

‘Does that come with the account? I don’t know. I don’t care, really, I just want a bank account so that I can get paid, and I’ll worry about how I access the money later’

‘En?’

‘A bank account. Une compte de banque. I want one of those’

He wearily began the arduous task of filling out a form with my details, grafting away while I stared at his black eye and decided that he was living in an abusive relationship.

‘Can I pay in a British cheque?’

‘A shek? Not urr. You muss go to anuzzer ING in Cloche D’Or’.

‘Isn’t this ING Cloche D’Or? It says ‘ING Cloche D’Or’ on a big sign outside the entrance’

‘Non’.

‘If I go to this other ING, I can pay it in there? How long will it take?’

He shrugged, disinterested.

‘One week? Ten days? A year? A millennia?’

‘Maybe six week. I don naw. You giz shek to ING Cloche D’Or. Zey send next Muns. We mus send ze shek to ING UK’

‘Oh. Well in that case can’t I just send it to ING UK myself, by recorded delivery, and then it will take less time, yes?’

‘Non. It take six week’.

‘Right’.

After a few moments my battered, branded friend handed me a file full of information and a card with my account number and sort code on it.

‘What about my card, when do I get that?’

‘In sree week. We call you’

He was clearly concerned that I would start harassing him, and eventually become something of a stalker, which, to be fair, I eventually did.

‘Why has my account number got 25 digits? How am I supposed to pay for stuff online - American Apparel are never going to accept this?’

‘You want credit card?’

‘No. Wait – can I pay for stuff online by credit card?’

Another shrug.

‘Well, can I have a credit card?’

‘Non’.

‘Right. So where is the elusive ING Cloche D’Or, then?’

Black-eye handed me a leaflet decorated with branch details: then leaned back in his chair with an ‘I’d appreciate it if you suddenly died’ sort of expression.

The conversation was over.