An End to Customer Service, Welcome to Club Class
I just broke another resolution: Never to go for any product or service that calls itself ‘Premium’ or ‘Premier’. I hate the whole elitist thang — the idea that there’s one bunch of people, and then another privileged bunch of people who have better hair, get better service — and I figured if enough of us didn’t take the ‘Premium’ service the companies offering it would have to just offer everyone better service for a vanilla price.
Of course, I was being stupid. When the Hong Kong bank I had just opened a new account at (Bank A) in anger at my existing bank (Bank B) told me they wouldn’t accept USD checks until I’d had an account with them for six months (and even then would charge me nearly $30 per deposit), I had to trundle across the street to my old bank and eat humble pie. What kind of bank lets you buy stuff on the never-never with a virtually unlimited credit card but won’t let you deposit cheques until you’ve known them long enough to have given birth to two thirds of a baby?
To my surprise Bank B treated me royally, and when they took my checks and deposited them immediately, ushered me into a private booth and offered me a Premium account (better deposit rates, my own personal banker, a separate entrance, the possibility of better hair) I was vulnerable. I caved. Hell, I even asked them about life insurance for my dependents. They must have thought it was Christmas.
Me? I was happy for a nice chair and a cubicle wall between me and the riffraff. And the joy of storming back into Bank A and throwing my bank card on their desk and telling the staff in technical banking language where to put it.
So this is what happens when you turn 43. You stop caring about the people and start caring about your people. Someone shoot me.