It was that time of the year again.
That period where all my funds had dried up. Any money I'd managed to gather and save had been sucked away on the triple threat of rent, bills and take away pizzas and I was left nigh-on penniless. The bar was paying me enough to eat every week, but that was if I didn't have bills to pay.
With a great heaving sigh, I cracked open my money box and spent an hour counting those sad coppers to see what kind of life expectancy I had. £17. That was how much my life would have to cost to maintain until money came flooding at me. £17 in pennies and 2ps, bagged up in money bags and thrown in my satchel causing it to weight at least 40lbs.
I shambled up to the Co-operative till and deposited my 17 baggies on the counter:
"Can I change these into real monies, please? I'm so hungry," I managed to croak out through cracked, dry lips.
"Of course sir," the teller said, her voice ringing with hope. "Can I see your debit card?"
"Oh, I'm not actually with this bank. I just want it converted into something I can actually spend. Like that money you have not half a foot away from your wrist" I calmly explained.
"Sorry. We don't offer that service. You must be a client of the bank. Company policy," she said, her lovely tones collapsing into a bitter rasp when she realised I was an outsider.
Dejectedly, I left. I went to Halifax across the road and they happily did it despite me not being a customer of theirs. In conclusion, screw you Co-operative Bank. My satchel was really freaking heavy. read more