THE first time I really appreciated how much life was going to change was in the very building I’m sitting in now. There to open my first French bank account, the bank manageress, received me in a back office across a desk piled with reams of papers.
From the moment I looked into her ‘been there, done that, don’t try any-thing with me’ face I had an awful feeling I had finally met my nemesis.
A woman of a disappointed age, she had the kitten heels and the se-quined T-shirt in tune with the thick bleached hair.
A leather biker’s jacket was the only coat on the coat stand.
‘Different,’ I first thought, ‘Bit wild for an uptight branch office in La France Profonde.’
And therefore, hopefully, anarchistic enough to be generous, in times of need, my need, with the money amassed by prudent farmers and liber-ated from the stockings under the bed.
After she’d lectured me on the dire consequences of signing cheques without authorised overdrafts when funds were low; warned me how my cheque book could be ripped before my very eyes and all banking, anywhere, forbidden to me, and ended with the ultimate sanction of jail; I realised the game was well and truly over before it began.
But then it was just as well. The big salary had gone, the credit cards paid off and I was embarking on a strange, unknown world of living within my means.
I perked up though when she asked if I’d like an overdraft. ‘Oh God, yes please. Thank you. Excellent.’
How much? Said with a tight smile, but smile it was. ‘Oh what I’ve al-ways had,’ I answered blithely. '10,000/15,000 – euros, of course now, not sterling.’
She laughed, actually laughed out loud. ‘What for?’ she said, studying me over her glasses.
What for? What an odd thing to say.
‘Well, nothing really,’ I replied shocked at the question no banker had ever asked me.
‘Just to be there. Comfort. In case. You know?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t. €300 authorised’ and turned to the printer which was spewing out paper after paper for me to sign. It was all over baby blue.
And now here I am again, older, poorer and much wiser to the world of French functionaires.
That manager has long gone. Yep, off to pastures new, riding an actual motorcycle.
The building was revamped last year and now I sit in a glass box looking out on the park where I used to walk Portia while waiting for the house keys.
Before me is a man in his early 30s; rather good looking, bearded and with a sweet, almost, all crossed, innocent smile.
We had a brief conversation before my appointment and I emailed him all the documents required which were somehow in my Mac.
I was here for my field drains – finally turned down by the insurance – and all I wanted was a measly €5000.
‘Is €5000 enough?’ He opens. ‘Perhaps six in case of unforeseen prob-lems?’
Oh, be still my beating heart. ‘That seems wise,’ I say, nodding as if such a thought had not entered my head. Inside I’m thinking: Five for the drains and one for me.
Before him on the computer is my financial life. Tax records; social charges as an auto entrepreneur; UK bank account – all there in their na-ked glory.
I answer his questions on this and that and as time ticks on Ireland is mentioned. Ah Glory be to God – he lived there for several months, loved it and we are now as one.
Interest and repayment is discussed…pennies, well centimes.
He offers other options; longer time, cheaper monthly payments and I’ve now been there 90 long minutes and am desperate for my ecig. Inside I’m screaming: Just give me the bloody money.
We settle on a deal and then…the door opens and in slips the real big fromage.
Sleek as a seal, groomed to city standards, good looking too, he slides behind my man and scrolls down the screen. I check his eyes. Cold. Oh buggery bollocks. I am undone.
My sweet man is stammering whispered replies. My hands grow sweaty and tick tock goes the clock.
Suddenly I need insurance or a monthly savings deposit; a further avis from the tax people; a sacrifice of my only son.
More than two hours later I reel out with another appointment made for the further documents. Tomorrow is a holiday so it’s the day after, then it will go to head office and then, if so granted, it will be a further eight days before I get the cash.
Once home, life draining from me and an overwhelming desire to lie whimpering in a darkened room, I try to access the tax documents on line.
I can’t. I’ll need to phone the tax office. If it wouldn’t hurt I’d bang my head against the table.
Instead I sit here to write this. In the silence I hear a rustling behind me in the kitchen.
I creep in. A semi open crisp packet is moving. I prod it. A bloody mouse leaps out and….disappears.
Another day in La France Profonde. Le sigh.
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