by On Monday I spoke to my parents, then made a trip to Cambridge where this time I had an appointment with Barclays. This was nerve-wracking for me. I noticed that the branch was about to reduce its hours by 20%; in a few years it probably won’t exist at all. (Up until two years ago, a St Ives branch also existed.) I was ushered into a small glass-walled office where I saw the same woman as on Friday. I told her that I had no more documents, despite my best efforts. “We’ll see what we can do.” Some time later, after talking to “management”, she gave me the OK. My power bill would suffice. I then filled in a form to get the funds paid into my New Zealand account. That was a huge relief, though she did say it could take me a ridiculous 12 weeks to receive the money (seriously, how?), and there was no hope of an interest payment or any compensation. My expectations had been lowered to a level where I didn’t care at that point. I did however express my disgust at the way I’d been treated by Barclays throughout the whole saga. The call centre staff weren’t too bad – they were just doing their rather awful jobs – but the organisation as a whole completely failed to help me. I could not talk to anybody at Barclays who dealt directly with account closures, and the whole time I was left guessing and wading through literally impossible bureaucratic treacle. The woman I saw at the Cambridge branch, while competent at the ins and outs of her jobs, showed no empathy whatsoever with what I’d been through. Tomorrow, while I have some time, I’ll write to the Barclays CEO and to the ombudsman. (Ombudsman. What a wonderful word.) This blog is a great help with that. I can just search “Barclays” and find the dates of my phone calls and pointless queuing to create an accurate litany of terrible experiences.
When I got back from Cambridge I dropped in on my family friends who were back from their traffic-jam-ridden trip to Southampton, and we went to Wetherspoons. This is a massive chain of pubs run by a famous (or infamous) Brexiter, even though all of us voted seven years ago (that long?!) to prevent that outcome. We plumped for Wetherspoons because of the price; they’re the cheapest option around. They save money by buying up kegs of beer in bulk just before their expiry date, knowing that they’ll still shift them. I had a steak and kidney pie, a beer, and a chocolate fudge cake, all for £15.
On Tuesday I had an evening flight back home, and met my university friend in London on the way to the airport. After dealing with a broken-down train and being told off for then boarding a train from a different company (why is it so complicated?), I met him at a bar at St Pancras. Surprisingly for me, the bar was almost empty. We had a chat about his girlfriend’s upcoming cancer treatment and his ongoing battle with the cladding on his apartment block and the other (unmotivated and uncooperative) owners. A double nightmare. He, and his girlfriend for that matter, have a great attitude to these kinds of setbacks, but they’re in for a very trying second half of the year regardless. We ambled down the river, past Trafalgar Square and Buckingham Palace, the very centre of London which I saw often as a kid and seemed magical back then. (Dad had galleries and exhibitions in London, so made regular trips there.) We parted ways close to Victoria Station where I got the coach to Luton Airport. I had plenty of time to kill there before my flight. I arrived home at 2:30 in the morning and was relieved not to have any lessons until the afternoon.
The weather in the UK was extraordinarily warm when I was there – 30 degrees every day – and without a hint of rain. While I was away I got phone alerts warning of torrential storms in and around Timiș. People thought it was funny that by visiting Britain I got away from British weather.
