I posted the funny part of Ian’s banking experience recently, but when he offered me some amusing but recycled jokes as blog content, I said I was holding out for original material.
The whole banking story, complete with amorous yearnings, arrived with permission to publish, granted as follows: “Anyhoo, Billy Boy, do what you wish with this.”
Last Sunday I was hungry. See? by Ian McPhail
So I went into the bank of NS at the corner of Bingham and Kingston Road to get some dough out of the machine.
I got some dough alright, but the machine “ate”my bankbook.
So, after putting an “Out of order” sign on the machine, I returned the following day.
I explained to the teller what had happened. She, in turn, went to check the machine; returning to inform me that there was no chewed-up bankbook in either of the two machines.
Now I’m not casting aspersions on this girl, however, she seemed to be more interested on what was on her lap rather than helping me out. I’m sure it was an iPhone that held her attention.
Anyway, I thought, screw this. I thanked her, then headed for my home branch at Woodbine and Danforth. AND! I got the teller I’d been looking for!
You see, my major concern was this: On the first page of one’s bankbook is one’s account number, and let’s face it, there’s some pretty smart crooks out there.
Nancy, (a girl I’d love to date if I wasn’t as old as her grandfather) told me that there was no way anyone could access my bank account. No way, unless they had my password. (I was almost tempted to ask her, “If I give you my password would you go out with me?”)