Kassenfiliale
So as not to leave bg talking to himself entirely, it's time for me to bitch about something again. Todays contenders to be first against the wall are banks.
You see, a little under 2 months ago, I opened a bank account. My youthful naivete allowed me to phantasize that this would allow my employer (who is all-mighty and all-wise, long may god keep him in health and fortune and me in his favour) to pay my salary into it, whence I might withdraw it at my convenience, and wherewith I might purchase food, which I might eat, that I might live. A simple dream, but one whose tragic impossibility I was to learn.
After 7 weeks the dumbass mophos have still not sent me an ATM card. They've sent me standing order forms. They've sent me deposit forms. They've sent me forms to send to my business partners informing them of my new bank details. They've sent me pre-addressed envelopes to put the standing order forms into. They've sent me a PIN to use with the ATM card I don't have. They've sent me a PIN to use when I call their insanely broken voice-recognition phone system. They've sent me a PIN to use with their website. They've sent me one hundred (seriously) "TAN" numbers, whose purpose I've yet to determine. Each of these arrived on separate days, in separate envelopes (okay, the TAN numbers came together, but otherwise). I expect the partridge in the pear tree to turn up any day now.
What they have persisted on a daily basis in not sending me, is a motherfucking ATM card. Or rather, they claim that they've already sent it to me three times, but each time it was returned to them as undeliverable. In fact, the second time it was returned as undeliverable, they sent me a letter to tell me it was returned, but that they'd send it again. Two weeks later there was, of course, no sign of it.
So I called them up. Or rather, I hacked my way for several days through a dense thicket of broken voice-recognition menus, eventually reaching a vast and arid plain of hold-music, at the end of which I was incredulous to find what appeared to be an actual human answering an actual phone. From the sound of things, said actual human was located in the back of a fairly crowded actual pub, but after four days on the trail, I wasn't complaining.
After I had revived somewhat from my arduous journey, I explained my plight to the professionally sympathetic human. She suggested that she would ask her colleagues (I presume they were in the same pub) to send out the ATM card again. I proposed the theory that we could extrapolate from past experiences and conclude the futility of such an undertaking, failing as it did to address the possible root cause (ding-dung-diiiiing) of the failure of the previous three attempts. She admitted to a certain puzzlement, though I wouldn't go so far as to say curiosity, as to that root cause, speculating that I might have given an incorrect address, or perchance my letterbox was not clearly marked.
I mentioned the standing order forms, and the deposit forms. I took note of the successful arrival of the forms to send to my business partners informing them of my new bank details, and the pre-addressed envelopes to put the standing order forms into. I described the progressive arrival of the menagerie of PIN numbers. Failing to notice any reaction, I pointed with somewhat increased urgency to the case of the 100 TAN numbers. In a final appeal to intelligence, reason, or even a sense of irony, I related the story of the letter informing me of the first two ATM cards' (yes that's right, no second 's') tragic fate.
To finally get rid of me, she agreed to point out to her colleagues at the other end of the pub the possibility that they were sending the ATM cards to the wrong fucking address. Thus I was filled with a new hope that I might yet see that glorious day when I would access the wealth my employer (who is all-mighty and all-wise, long may god keep him in health and fortune and me in his favour) was generously paying into the account, and full of good cheer I set off to work with my bucket and spade hi ho.
That good cheer was quickly taken care of when I discovered that the money my employer (who is all-mighty and all-wise, long may god keep him in health and fortune and me in his favour) tried to pay into my account (that I might one day access it) had bounced right back, for want of the correct branch code. The reason being that I had naively believed the bankminions when they told me that the branch code would be that of the Berlin office of the bank. I recall with some bitterness now that I was even relieved that they had but a single branch code for all Berlin, much simplifying the life of a simple cronjob, who had never understood the purpose of bank branch codes in creation's great plan to begin with.
Poor foolish cronjob. Well should I have known that it is not the purpose of a bank to make anyone's life easier. For another phone call to the bank (again with much hacking of voice-menu shrubbery and trudging of desolate hold-music plains) did reveal that my account resides not in Berlin, but in Munich. Obviously. Just in case I ever find myself in Munich.
The correct branch code thus obtained, the only minor problem remaining was my short-term cash flow situation, which was a little worrying, as the sum total of my liquid assets was running at 3 euros and a jar full of pennies. As I was running out of things to eat, I dug up some sasanach money from the back of the drawer, which to turn into real money, with which I might buy food, that I might eat, etc.
And so we come at last to the meaning of this post's heading, which is just as well because I'm not about to type much more. Kassenfiliale is today's new entry in the list of Words That Someone Deserves A Clip Over The Ear For Inventing. A Filiale is the german word for a branch office. A Kassenfiliale, then, is a special kind of branch office. In the case of banks, it's a very special kind indeed. It's the kind of bank that handles actual money.
Based on today's experience, approximately 0.009% of the banks in Berlin have this wondrous power to deal with actual, real money -- the kind you can use to buy things -- and hence could convert my sasanach money into yoyos, and therefore implicitly into food.
What the people in all the non-Kassenfiliale banks do all day is fucking beyond me. "Oh, you want money? Well, I'm afraid we don't have any of that. We're a bank, you see." WTF? By the time I finally got someone to change my money for me at 5 minutes to closing time (let's leave the discussion of how many German banks even open after 2pm for more than one day a week for another day), I was several stages past John Cleese in the cheese shop.
Anyway, I now have money and, by extension thereof, yoghurt, orange juice and chocolate, and I got to rant for a bit, so I'm restored to a state of happy-bunniness. For now. But the fucking banks are on the list.
You see, a little under 2 months ago, I opened a bank account. My youthful naivete allowed me to phantasize that this would allow my employer (who is all-mighty and all-wise, long may god keep him in health and fortune and me in his favour) to pay my salary into it, whence I might withdraw it at my convenience, and wherewith I might purchase food, which I might eat, that I might live. A simple dream, but one whose tragic impossibility I was to learn.
After 7 weeks the dumbass mophos have still not sent me an ATM card. They've sent me standing order forms. They've sent me deposit forms. They've sent me forms to send to my business partners informing them of my new bank details. They've sent me pre-addressed envelopes to put the standing order forms into. They've sent me a PIN to use with the ATM card I don't have. They've sent me a PIN to use when I call their insanely broken voice-recognition phone system. They've sent me a PIN to use with their website. They've sent me one hundred (seriously) "TAN" numbers, whose purpose I've yet to determine. Each of these arrived on separate days, in separate envelopes (okay, the TAN numbers came together, but otherwise). I expect the partridge in the pear tree to turn up any day now.
What they have persisted on a daily basis in not sending me, is a motherfucking ATM card. Or rather, they claim that they've already sent it to me three times, but each time it was returned to them as undeliverable. In fact, the second time it was returned as undeliverable, they sent me a letter to tell me it was returned, but that they'd send it again. Two weeks later there was, of course, no sign of it.
So I called them up. Or rather, I hacked my way for several days through a dense thicket of broken voice-recognition menus, eventually reaching a vast and arid plain of hold-music, at the end of which I was incredulous to find what appeared to be an actual human answering an actual phone. From the sound of things, said actual human was located in the back of a fairly crowded actual pub, but after four days on the trail, I wasn't complaining.
After I had revived somewhat from my arduous journey, I explained my plight to the professionally sympathetic human. She suggested that she would ask her colleagues (I presume they were in the same pub) to send out the ATM card again. I proposed the theory that we could extrapolate from past experiences and conclude the futility of such an undertaking, failing as it did to address the possible root cause (ding-dung-diiiiing) of the failure of the previous three attempts. She admitted to a certain puzzlement, though I wouldn't go so far as to say curiosity, as to that root cause, speculating that I might have given an incorrect address, or perchance my letterbox was not clearly marked.
I mentioned the standing order forms, and the deposit forms. I took note of the successful arrival of the forms to send to my business partners informing them of my new bank details, and the pre-addressed envelopes to put the standing order forms into. I described the progressive arrival of the menagerie of PIN numbers. Failing to notice any reaction, I pointed with somewhat increased urgency to the case of the 100 TAN numbers. In a final appeal to intelligence, reason, or even a sense of irony, I related the story of the letter informing me of the first two ATM cards' (yes that's right, no second 's') tragic fate.
To finally get rid of me, she agreed to point out to her colleagues at the other end of the pub the possibility that they were sending the ATM cards to the wrong fucking address. Thus I was filled with a new hope that I might yet see that glorious day when I would access the wealth my employer (who is all-mighty and all-wise, long may god keep him in health and fortune and me in his favour) was generously paying into the account, and full of good cheer I set off to work with my bucket and spade hi ho.
That good cheer was quickly taken care of when I discovered that the money my employer (who is all-mighty and all-wise, long may god keep him in health and fortune and me in his favour) tried to pay into my account (that I might one day access it) had bounced right back, for want of the correct branch code. The reason being that I had naively believed the bankminions when they told me that the branch code would be that of the Berlin office of the bank. I recall with some bitterness now that I was even relieved that they had but a single branch code for all Berlin, much simplifying the life of a simple cronjob, who had never understood the purpose of bank branch codes in creation's great plan to begin with.
Poor foolish cronjob. Well should I have known that it is not the purpose of a bank to make anyone's life easier. For another phone call to the bank (again with much hacking of voice-menu shrubbery and trudging of desolate hold-music plains) did reveal that my account resides not in Berlin, but in Munich. Obviously. Just in case I ever find myself in Munich.
The correct branch code thus obtained, the only minor problem remaining was my short-term cash flow situation, which was a little worrying, as the sum total of my liquid assets was running at 3 euros and a jar full of pennies. As I was running out of things to eat, I dug up some sasanach money from the back of the drawer, which to turn into real money, with which I might buy food, that I might eat, etc.
And so we come at last to the meaning of this post's heading, which is just as well because I'm not about to type much more. Kassenfiliale is today's new entry in the list of Words That Someone Deserves A Clip Over The Ear For Inventing. A Filiale is the german word for a branch office. A Kassenfiliale, then, is a special kind of branch office. In the case of banks, it's a very special kind indeed. It's the kind of bank that handles actual money.
Based on today's experience, approximately 0.009% of the banks in Berlin have this wondrous power to deal with actual, real money -- the kind you can use to buy things -- and hence could convert my sasanach money into yoyos, and therefore implicitly into food.
What the people in all the non-Kassenfiliale banks do all day is fucking beyond me. "Oh, you want money? Well, I'm afraid we don't have any of that. We're a bank, you see." WTF? By the time I finally got someone to change my money for me at 5 minutes to closing time (let's leave the discussion of how many German banks even open after 2pm for more than one day a week for another day), I was several stages past John Cleese in the cheese shop.
Anyway, I now have money and, by extension thereof, yoghurt, orange juice and chocolate, and I got to rant for a bit, so I'm restored to a state of happy-bunniness. For now. But the fucking banks are on the list.
posted by cron | 9:58 p.m.
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