1. A Bit of Business

 I was seething. It was a quiet, decorous seethe, in keeping with my surroundings, but I seethed, nonetheless. Opposite me, sitting in an identical, putty coloured bucket chair to my own, was the young woman who had triggered the seething situation. She didn't know it, but she had. She still smiled her condescending little smile, blonde head tipped slightly to one side as she regarded me serenely, awaiting an answer to her recently uttered question, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil she had created. I was not meeting the girl's gaze, resting my eyes instead on the pale, water colour print on the opposite wall. It was a bland, rural landscape of the kind so often seen on the walls of banks, building societies and business offices everywhere. It was dull, uninspiring, no more than wallpaper. I hated it, it was such a dreadful waste of space. I imagined a warehouse full of the awful things, being sent out in batches to every office in the land, in response to requests for 'something to put on the walls.' Not chosen, not examined and assessed for artistic merit, not selected for their beauty, the vibrant colours or exciting subject matter but bought, as if by the yard, just to fill a space, not to excite or even to please. Just to be there. It wasn't helping, it only added to my reasons for taking against the place.

I transferred my attention to the toe of my Red or Dead boot, which I was waggling up and down, a sure sign of tension. Then I turned my attention back to the girl.

 

I had pushed open the door of the building society and stepped into its' blue and beige interior about fifteen minutes earlier, bent on gathering some information on opening an account. I had read, in the Financial Section of the Guardian that, the current climate being what it was, spreading ones savings widely was a sensible move, it being unwise to have all your eggs in one basket if the handle broke. And so, in the hope of protecting the the pitiful bit of money I had worked so hard for and saved so assiduously, I had decided to put this advice into action, and that was why I now sat across the desk from this girl whom, I hoped, was qualified to advise me on the type of accounts available, despite the fact that she only looked about fourteen.

It had all started well enough. The girl had introduced herself as Laura and had offered tea or coffee, both of which had been declined, with a cheery quip from myself about preferring a gin a tonic, and the blonde child (who clearly didn't get the joke) had then asked me all the relevant questions, listening attentively to my replies before suggesting some options. Everything was going well. I am, by nature, a reasonably sunny, friendly woman, given to smiling a lot and ready to like people, so the atmosphere in Laura's little office had been relaxed, thus far but, not being a passive person, and having made sure I was equipped to debate my choices, I asked questions, weighed pros and cons and gave the information presented my full consideration.

As it happens I had other accounts, in other places and made mental comparisons as Laura talked about interest rates and ease of access. Then, having delivered her well rehearsed spiel on each of the plans that she considered suitable, the girl asked, pleasantly enough, 'So, what do you think. Any of those appeal to you?' Then she sat back, content in a job well done, awaiting my decision. But I had noticed what seemed to be an omission in the selection put forward for my deliberation. Perhaps sweet little Laura had just overlooked it, or maybe there was something in its' detail that did not fit with my particular criteria. I decided to ask.

'I'm just wondering Laura,' I said, and I smiled. As I say, I am a nice person and I didn't want this child to think there was any criticism in my enquiry, 'I was just wondering if I might not get a higher rate of interest with an online account?'

The answer was not immediate. Laura drew a short breath, pursed her lips, shifted in her seat, placed her hands together on her lap and looked to the ceiling, then at the floor as if searching for the answer to this ostensibly simple question. Then, having apparently found it, she leaned towards me, an expression of concern in her lovely eyes and her eyebrows raised a little behind the trendy glasses, and she said it. She said these words, 'Do you think you'd be entirely comfortable with that?' And my friendliness turned to frost.
 

'Comfortable'. A simple enough word with nothing obviously controversial about it. Quite a nice word, really, often used in conjunction with things like slippers, armchairs and trousers with elasticated waists which, incidentally, I trust I am never likely to be found dead in. 'Comfortable'. She new exactly why that particular word had been chosen. She fully understood the implications that lurked behind its innocent façade. And it rendered me furious. Laura had looked at me and, despite my quite funky hair cut and well fitted  designer label jacket, all she had seen was a woman of a certain age. An old woman. A woman with wrinkles. A woman who could not possibly be 'comfortable' with the intricacies of modern technology, which was why she had not seen fit to even mention such a preposterous notion as an account that involved computer skills.

The innocently enquiring smile did not waver on her pretty face and I had to subdue a terrible urge to punch it. But I did not. Instead, after a few moments of contemplation, I looked calmly into Laura's innocent blue eyes and replied, quietly and evenly, 'I think I'd be perfectly....' I paused, preparing myself to deliver the word, 'comfortable', and then I said it, in a carefully weighted way, as if using it for the very first time, '..comfortable with an online account seeing as most of my financial arrangements are already in web accounts and, indeed..,' here I gave a small 'would you believe it?' kind of a laugh, 'most of my life seems so be conducted online. Isn't everybody's these days?' I  saw the blink of surprise in those great big baby blues, and it pleased me, a bit.
 

'Yes, well, of course, we do have a Web Account and it does offer a slightly better interest rate than the ones I've mentioned so far,' countered Laura, speaking so quickly now that she almost tripped over her words, whilst swivelling back to her computer screen, scrabbling to regain the upper-hand in knowledge of such matters, but she knew what had just happened. Oh yes, she knew. Somehow, ever so gently, she had been reprimanded. She had been found wanting. She had made a mistake. She straightened her back, adopted a serious, professional expression and gave me all the relevant, and previously witheld, details. I kept my icy gaze upon her throughout, but Laura did not make eye contact.
 

When she had finished her attempt at recovery I didn't speak. I let the silence stand, allowing it to lengthen to just beyond the point of 'comfortable' before picking up my bag (Orla Kiely) and saying, 'Thank you Laura. I'll think about every everything', and here I paused to put on my gloves, slowly, carefully easing the thin red leather over each finger, ' absolutely EVERYTHING, you've said.' Now I gave her my most beaming smile and continued. 'But I really have to dash now. My lover arrives at three. I found him on the Internet.' Then I was up and out of the door like a greyhound out of the trap, before the poor, startled girl could draw breath. I would not be going back, they would not be getting my business. I was fed up with it. Really, really, very fed up.

And no, I was not actually dashing off to a passionate, sexual encounter but I very well might have been. There was no reason why I shouldn't have been conducting a torrid affair, apart from the fact that I am already very happily married, but a point had needed to be made. You see, it wasn't the first time I'd encountered ageism. Not by a long chalk. It'd been creeping in on me for a while, but now it seemed to have become a regular occurrence, and I was sick of it. I AM sick of it, and it's time to fight back!