by Henry VIII moves to a new bank and discovers that ending a financial relationship is somehow more paperwork than ending a marriage
I once switched loyalty between wives with genuine, occasionally fatal, consequence. Switching my direct debits to a new bank took eleven separate phone calls and produced no consequence whatsoever beyond considerable, prolonged frustration.
The Switching Service
My new bank promised a service that would automatically transfer every direct debit within seven working days, a promise I trusted completely, having learned to distrust considerably grander promises made by considerably more powerful institutions across two entire centuries, and this one, remarkably, mostly delivered.
The Stragglers
Three payments refused to transfer regardless, including my gym membership, forcing me to call Kyle’s front desk directly and explain the situation to a colleague who clearly had no context whatsoever for why a man was ringing specifically about payment logistics rather than, as they initially assumed, cancelling entirely out of shame over the burpees.
The Hold Music
I spent a cumulative two hours on hold across the various calls required to fully complete the switch, listening to hold music I have come to associate specifically with genuine administrative despair, a sound I now recognise instantly the way I once recognised the specific silence that preceded bad news from an ambassador.
The Old Account
My old bank, upon finally closing the account, asked me to confirm in writing that I wished to leave, a final act of gentle persuasion I found genuinely touching given how little sentiment most institutions in this century bother extending toward a departing customer, myself included in most of my own royal dismissals.
The Verdict
The whole process took nineteen days rather than the promised seven, and concluded with a small compensation payment automatically credited to my new account for the delay, an act of quiet accountability I found more satisfying than most actual apologies I received across my original reign. I once dissolved marriages with less paperwork than I required to dissolve a single banking relationship, and I have decided modern bureaucracy, whatever its faults, at least keeps a considerably more honest record of its own failures.
The New Routine
I have kept a small folder now tracking every direct debit by name and date, a habit born entirely of the switching ordeal and one I intend to maintain permanently. Dev calls it excessive. I call it the natural response of a man who once controlled an entire treasury and briefly could not confirm whether his own gym membership still existed.
The Following Month
I have since kept a tighter folder of every direct debit, checked monthly against my statement, a habit born entirely of the switching ordeal. Dev calls it excessive. I call it the natural caution of a man who briefly could not confirm whether his own gym membership still existed.
The whole switching saga could easily justify its own entry under my temper. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: the original account of my own return to Britain, the proper London pub where history finally sat down for a pint, interest rates frozen until the economy agrees to behave.
