I’ve got an HBSC credit card. In fact I’ve got two because they said I could have one for free However, I don’t like them because they’re dangerous and debt is the cause of misery for umpteen millions the world over. I remain in credit because it’s a bloody hassle paying any bills in this country, even via those magical mobile phones which can be preprogrammed to microwave your dinner as well as your brain.
The only time I’ve used the card is for magazine subscriptions through the internet. However, thanks to my erstwhile employers who are being more than recalcitrant in paying me what they say they owe me (let alone the legal claim for compensation), I could well be in urgent need of cash, for example if I have an emergency back in Blighty.
So, what’s my PIN?
This morning I hailed a couple of mikrolets and wended my way to the HBSC Card Centre in the WTC and tried to log in with the Personal Identification Number I thought I’d remembered and discovered I hadn’t. So I trotted upstairs to the area euphemistically called Customer Service.
Ok, I say, I’ve forgotten my PIN. Please issue me a new one. I gave my ID including my date of birth, my mother’s maiden name, my KITAS, shoe size and the information that tailors ask for ~ I dress on the right, if you must know. This all tallied with what is on the HBSC computer.
This will take two weeks, they tell me. TWO WEEKS??? They’re sitting there with a computer system which is far superior to the one I’m using for this diatribe and theirs is networked.
So, I say, you know that I am who I say I am and, I tell them, I’m also Jakartass and if you don’t use your computerised system, paid for, I point out, from the horrendous interest charged to customers, then I’ll write about it here.
Ah, but we have procedures, I’m told. Two bloody weeks to change a PIN when they could be charging me interest? This is the Lack of Customer Service Department, I say. They’re perpetually on the phone exhorting me to take advantage of ‘special offers’ and their monthly account includes a pamphlet offering discounts at hyper-expensive boutiques.
Bullshit, I say. Following procedures is the perennial excuse used by the henchmen of genocidal maniacs the world over and is no longer acceptable. Customers pay the salaries of all bank staff everywhere so screw ‘procedures’ I say.
Of course, I got nowhere, except here.
How come my erstwhile employers didn’t follow the procedures they made for themselves, procedures I agreed to?