breaking the code to save the world. “Am I debt control? Or overdrafts and bank charges?”
“Overdrafts and bank charges,” says Suze knowledgeably.
“OK.” I press three and a moment later a cheerful singsong voice greets me.
“Hello! Welcome to the Endwich Central Call Center. I’m Dawna, how can I help you, Miss Bloomwood?’’
“Oh, hi!” I say, taken aback. “Are you real?”
“Yes!” says Dawna, and laughs. “I’m real. Can I help you?”
“Erm . . . yes. I’m phoning because I need an extension to my overdraft. A few hundred pounds if that’s all right. Or, you know, more, if you’ve got it . . .”
“I see,” says Dawna pleasantly. “Was there a specific reason? Or just a general need?”
She sounds so nice and friendly, I feel myself start to relax.
“Well, the thing is, I’ve had to invest quite a bit in my career recently, and a few bills have come in, and kind of . . . taken me by surprise.”
“Oh right,” says Dawna sympathetically.
“I mean, it’s not as if I’m in
trouble
. It’s just a temporary thing.”
“A temporary thing,” she echoes, and I hear her typing in the background.
“I suppose I have been letting things mount up a bit. But the thing was, I paid everything off! I thought I’d be able to relax for a bit!”
“Oh right.”
“So you understand?” I give a relieved beam to Suze, who offers me thumbs-up in return. This is more like it. Just one quick and easy call, like in the adverts. No nasty letters, no tricky questions . . .
“I completely understand,” Dawna’s saying. “It happens to us all, doesn’t it?”
“So—can I have the overdraft?” I say joyfully.
“Oh, I’m not authorized to extend your overdraft by more than £50,” says Dawna in surprise. “You’ll have to get in touch with your branch overdraft facilities director. Who is a . . . let me see . . . Fulham . . . a Mr. John Gavin.”
I stare at the phone in dismay.
“But I’ve already written to him!”
“Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it? Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No,” I say. “No, I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”
I put down the phone disconsolately.
“Stupid bank. Stupid call center.”
“So are they going to give you the money?” asks Suze.
“I don’t know. It all depends on this John Gavin bloke.” I look up and see Suze’s anxious face. “But I’m sure he’ll say yes,” I add hastily. “He’s just got to review my file. It’ll be fine!”
“I suppose if you just don’t spend anything for a while, you’ll easily get back on track, won’t you?” she says hopefully. “I mean, you’re making loads of money from the telly, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I say after a pause, not liking to tell her that after rent, taxi fares, meals out, and outfits for the show, it doesn’t actually amount to that much.
“And there’s your book, too . . .”
“My book?”
For a moment I stare at her blankly. Then suddenly, with a lift of the heart, I remember. Of course! My self-help book! I’ve been meaning to do something about that.
Well, thank God. This is the answer. All I have to do is write my book really quickly and get a nice big check—and then I’ll pay all these cards off and everything will be happy again. Ha. I don’t need any stupid overdraft. I’ll start straight away. This evening!
And the truth is, I’m rather looking forward to getting down to my book. I have so many important themes I want to address in it, like poverty and wealth, comparative religion, philosophy maybe. I mean, I know the publishers have just asked for a simple self-help book, but there’s no reason why I can’t encompass broader questions too, is there?
In fact, if it does really well, I might give lectures. God, that would be great, wouldn’t it? I could become a kind of lifestyle guru and tour the world, and people would flock to see me, and ask my advice on all sorts of issues—
“How’s
“Overdrafts and bank charges,” says Suze knowledgeably.
“OK.” I press three and a moment later a cheerful singsong voice greets me.
“Hello! Welcome to the Endwich Central Call Center. I’m Dawna, how can I help you, Miss Bloomwood?’’
“Oh, hi!” I say, taken aback. “Are you real?”
“Yes!” says Dawna, and laughs. “I’m real. Can I help you?”
“Erm . . . yes. I’m phoning because I need an extension to my overdraft. A few hundred pounds if that’s all right. Or, you know, more, if you’ve got it . . .”
“I see,” says Dawna pleasantly. “Was there a specific reason? Or just a general need?”
She sounds so nice and friendly, I feel myself start to relax.
“Well, the thing is, I’ve had to invest quite a bit in my career recently, and a few bills have come in, and kind of . . . taken me by surprise.”
“Oh right,” says Dawna sympathetically.
“I mean, it’s not as if I’m in
trouble
. It’s just a temporary thing.”
“A temporary thing,” she echoes, and I hear her typing in the background.
“I suppose I have been letting things mount up a bit. But the thing was, I paid everything off! I thought I’d be able to relax for a bit!”
“Oh right.”
“So you understand?” I give a relieved beam to Suze, who offers me thumbs-up in return. This is more like it. Just one quick and easy call, like in the adverts. No nasty letters, no tricky questions . . .
“I completely understand,” Dawna’s saying. “It happens to us all, doesn’t it?”
“So—can I have the overdraft?” I say joyfully.
“Oh, I’m not authorized to extend your overdraft by more than £50,” says Dawna in surprise. “You’ll have to get in touch with your branch overdraft facilities director. Who is a . . . let me see . . . Fulham . . . a Mr. John Gavin.”
I stare at the phone in dismay.
“But I’ve already written to him!”
“Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it? Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No,” I say. “No, I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”
I put down the phone disconsolately.
“Stupid bank. Stupid call center.”
“So are they going to give you the money?” asks Suze.
“I don’t know. It all depends on this John Gavin bloke.” I look up and see Suze’s anxious face. “But I’m sure he’ll say yes,” I add hastily. “He’s just got to review my file. It’ll be fine!”
“I suppose if you just don’t spend anything for a while, you’ll easily get back on track, won’t you?” she says hopefully. “I mean, you’re making loads of money from the telly, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I say after a pause, not liking to tell her that after rent, taxi fares, meals out, and outfits for the show, it doesn’t actually amount to that much.
“And there’s your book, too . . .”
“My book?”
For a moment I stare at her blankly. Then suddenly, with a lift of the heart, I remember. Of course! My self-help book! I’ve been meaning to do something about that.
Well, thank God. This is the answer. All I have to do is write my book really quickly and get a nice big check—and then I’ll pay all these cards off and everything will be happy again. Ha. I don’t need any stupid overdraft. I’ll start straight away. This evening!
And the truth is, I’m rather looking forward to getting down to my book. I have so many important themes I want to address in it, like poverty and wealth, comparative religion, philosophy maybe. I mean, I know the publishers have just asked for a simple self-help book, but there’s no reason why I can’t encompass broader questions too, is there?
In fact, if it does really well, I might give lectures. God, that would be great, wouldn’t it? I could become a kind of lifestyle guru and tour the world, and people would flock to see me, and ask my advice on all sorts of issues—
“How’s
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