The Crossland Chronicles

Hole-in the-wall-itis

So we have implemented a new system at my place of work. Of course with all new company systems, as soon as it's implemented it immediately breaks down and now only lets in half the people it should! (Anyone who DIDN'T see that coming, please come to my desk, I have a bridge in London I wish to sell, for a very reasonable price.) So whilst we sit patiently waiting for our turn, knowing that as soon as we've signed in, it will freeze/kick us out/not show the documents, or any combination of the 3, I shall give you another of my famous rambles...

I wish to add a further '-rage' to the ever-increasing list. We all know about road-rage, and pedestrian rage reached new heights recently when someone was shot in an argument over who nudged someone's friend whilst passing their particular group (I can't remember which country it was, but it sounds like something the Americans would do). I believe we've all had queue rage at some particular moment in time and the one I want to add is very similar. I give you 'cash machine-rage'.

The particulars of this depend on the person currently at the machine. The first is the Talker. This person, usually with accomplice (and if not, it brings us back to a favourite topic - nutters of Sheffield at large), will engage in a long and spirited conversation whilst occasionally remembering that they are meant to be using the hole-in-the-wall. They will only be getting a tenner out for example, but it will take them an eternity as the point about Newcastle's latest signing, or who told our Sheryl that Jenny is sleeping behind her husband's back with Carl's supposedly gay life-partner, just has to be made. Never mind that the queue is now longer than at the clock machine on a 4pm finish, their transaction takes second place to their verbal diarrhoea.

As Mr or Mrs Gabber wanders off, arms flailing at the offside rule, up steps Mrs Handbag. Now, fully paid up members of the Queue-rage Anonymous website will know this particular person. Usually I don't genderfy these people, but this particular annoyance does tend to be missing a certain part of the human body that differentiates the sexes. (I refer of course to the male thinking organ.) This person, usually of advancing years, will sit her voluminous bag on the little shelf and begin to delve in, looking for her purse. Once located, she will spend a further couple of minutes searching through every card in the compartment (Tesco reward card, Tea-cosy of the month discount voucher, dry cleaning receipt for a coat given to the shop in 1978 etc) until she eventually locates the bank card, which she then proceeds to put in the machine up-side down. As it spits it back out at her and she inserts it the right way up (and at this point there's a place you'd like to insert it...), there is a pause and a little 'oh dear...' as you realise she has forgotten her pin number. But joy of joys, she remembered to write it down, in one of her more lucid moments of dementia, in a little note-book. More furtive searching unearths said book and pin typed, the plethora of options becomes available. Cash received, she attends to her bag once more, sorting out pockets, discovering the marvels of lost photo's and half-sucked boiled sweets, and generally making member of the queue - now round the corner - wish for a sudden burst of electricity from the machine. Finally she shuffles off and, as ours is a comedic God, is hit by a bolt of lightning to general cheers from the throng.

Next up is a relative of the Talker. The person with 245 kids. They juggle parental responsibilities with the procural of legal tender, which means stopping young Jimmy from hitting Keanu, who had stolen little Katie's lollipop, whilst the youngest, only a few months into their new found walking ability makes a spirited break for on-going traffic. At least this person is eager to get the money and depart, hopefully with full compliment of offspring, but nevertheless taking longer than the simple transaction should take.

Finally, as you near the end of the queue - which has now spread to a different postcode and is attracting new members just because any queue this long has to have something exciting and worthwhile - is the Organiser. This person will find their card straight away, conduct no superfluous chats, and have the good sense to leave their brood at home. However they will take this opportunity to check their bank balance, get a statement, top up their mobile, make a deposit and generally make use of every possible option. And, just when they take their card back and you are about to breathe a sigh of relief, they bring out another card and start again!! At this point, you naturally throw them through the bank's window and acquire your cash before the police arrive.

It shouldn't be this much of an effort, and, pitching up outside the bank and seeing a free cash machine is one of the minor joys in life, but, like so many in modern days, for a convenience it can be very inconvenient. Of course the good kind people who don't join the queue in front of you are the sort of people that will pay for a pint of milk and a packet of Dorito's with a credit card...but that's back to queue rage