My bank loves me, it seems. See, they love rich people because of that whole ‘loads of money’ thing and how… well, I don’t know. Whatever it is they do with their money. It’s never been that clear to me why they love rich people so much.
Probably something to do with all the fancy hats they can afford.
Anyway, banks then hate people like you, because you are normal, have a bit of money (but not loads) and don’t piss about with them in any real way. I am not one of you people. Nor am I one of the rich ones.
No, I belong to a select group that teeters on the brink – never quite absolutely broke, but always having to take advantage of credit facilities and overdrafts. I’m the kind of person kept in a perpetual state of debt that I have to pay for the privilege of having, which contributes to me staying in said debt. In perpetuity.
As I’ve said before, it’s entirely my fault so I’m not whining right now.
But it’s fun – in a hilarious, cynical way – how nice the bank is to me as a result of both a) not really having any money and b) not really causing them any problems as a result. I’m a good little prole to them, always paying minimum amounts, overdraft charges and whatever else they lob my way and never threatening to earn or save enough money to drag myself out of this.
Which is why the bank just sent me a letter this week offering to increase my overdraft limit by 50%, to £3,000. Because they have a sick sense of humour at banks and think ‘well, if we can already fleece him, why don’t we try and fleece him a bit more?’
Fortunately I’d have to ring them up to arrange this, and that’s not going to happen because I hate using the phone. Oh, also I’m thick and bad with money, but I’m not that thick or bad with money. Shove it up your arse, HSBC – you’ve got enough of my debt thanks.