Banking the Way It Should Be

I strolled through the teeming streets of our busy city at lunchtime today.  It was a pleasant Spring day and the sun shone down through a convenient gap created by a recently demolished building.  There was a sign from the property developer out the front apologising for the sunshine and promising to build something tall and ugly as soon as humanely possible.  Whether that will be any comfort for the next of kin of those office workers who burst into flames due to their unexpected contact with Vitamin D remains to be seen.

My objective was Martin Place where despite the best efforts of modern property developers there are some rather handsome old buildings.  There was the object of my journey a magnificent edifice in terracotta and pink granite.  Inside was a vast sweeping area replete with scagliola columns, exposed metal and marble counters.  Nowadays such magnificence would indicate the building was a dog kennel belonging to a rap stars favourite hooker or possible the latest wallet hoover in Las Vegas.  But no, this building dates from a bygone age when there were more traditional and socially acceptable methods of removing money from people than selling them dreadful music or encouraging them to bankrupt themselves amidst shiny lights and performing tigers.  This building is the headquarters of a bank.

Specifically it is the headquarters of Macquarie Bank, Australia's answer to Goldman Sachs, which tells you everything you need to know about Macquarie.  Conversely if you've never heard of Goldman Sachs saying they're like Macquarie tells you everything you need to know about them too.  Macquarie bought the building from the Commonwealth Bank a few years ago and kindly lets the former owners squat on the ground floor.  In preparation for my journey to America I had come to see the Commonwealth Bank in an attempt to persuade them not to cancel my credit card if they suddenly noticed it being used in the United States.  I've used it in Luxembourg and Tanzania without issue but you never know, the bank might wake up at some point.

Despite the fact that they no longer own it the building is obviously a showcase for the Commonwealth.  Everything is lovingly restored (or possibly just not screwed up in the first place) and everywhere smartly dressed people wait to attend to your needs.  Smartly dressed and perhaps ever so slightly desperate people.  It's obvious what the bank is trying to do.  It's trying to bring a 1920s level of service to go with the 1920s décor.  Unfortunately they're not getting it quite right.  In the actual 1920s this level of service at a bank's main branch would have been standard and carried out naturally by all concerned.  Today its obvious that the staff have been told to provide such service while not really understanding why.  The end result is a desperate and slightly creepy parade of people constantly accosting you as you stand in the queue to see if they can provide any service.

If this was America I would assume they were being paid in tips.  Since it's Australia I can only assume their employers are holding their families hostage somewhere.  There was a definite whiff of "my sick child's life depends on you smiling in satisfaction as we look at the cameras together" about the whole affair.  I toyed with the idea of frowning and shaking my head in dissatisfaction when one of them approached but the look of sick terror on their face when I started made me stop.

In the course of a not particularly lengthy stay at the bank I was "assisted" five times by various people all of whom wound up telling me that I would have to wait in the queue for a teller which I was doing anyway.  The tellers themselves were far more relaxed.  I suspect its because they get to sit down and the customers come to them.  Its a change in the power dynamic and in contrast to the terror stricken floor staff my teller was, smooth, confident and efficient.  Or at least she seemed efficient.  If she wasn't I won't find out about it until I try and charge something on my credit card in the United States by which time the teller will have forgotten all about me and the floor staff will all have had nervous breakdowns.