Scientology vs Banking

If you ask me there are two kinds of people I try to avoid as much as possible.
Bank employees and Scientologists. As luck would have it, I had a run in with both today. Sigh. Go figure. Bad week.

But, after today, I have realised that if I have to make a choice between the two (you know, on that possible day in the future, when all is death and we live off carbon dioxide and I enjoy watching “Noot vir Noot” because I really don’t have a choice, seeing as I’ve been chained to a chair in a basement by alien invaders (possibly the same ones who brought scientologists to earth) – you know, on THAT day) if I had to choose between the two, I would rather spend time telling lies to a Scientologist, or making that face that says “I am sooooo very interested in this crap, can’t believe I’ve never listened to you before” than spend a single second with a bank employee. I don’t know why, and although I’ll try to explain, I might not knock it quite on its head. The reason that is.

The bank employee in question is undoubtedly a good woman. She is a good Christian mother, who packs the kids lunch and is extremely conscientious in her work. And this is exactly the problem. Her adherence to paper and filing and ‘regulations’ is like a permanent rift between me and her. Imagine, if you will, Israel and Palestine. As hard as she tries, she frowns, nay, she objects, to such silly notions as internet banking and the concept of “paperless.” If she couldn't file something or fill a form out, what on earth would she do? Right. And this is where the two of us differ. I know what she could do. She could move back to Otjiwarongo for all I care. But hey. That’s just a suggestion.

I patiently tried to explain to this woman with coiffed hair that I did not keep my slips after using my debit card, as I hate paper (LOVE books for those of you rearing to rip me apart) but hate paper....see paperless is not only an environmental concept for me, but also a selfish one. I simply hate having papers lying around, in files and boxes and collecting dust and taking up space. You never look at those things anyway. You chuck them when you move. Unless, of course, you are Coiffe Lady.

She really said MADAM!

"Madam," she said, shaking her head as only bank employees can, her Afrikaans eyes a little wider in wonderment at this woman standing in front of her, in her bank nogal, who does not keep every single slip of financial history, "you have to keep every (emphasis here on rrrrr) slip. What do you do with them?" Again. Wonderment.
"I throw them away.” I say. Stubborn. I try to explain to her that I have Internet banking, so that I can follow my transactions, keep an eye on them. That is why I have Internet banking. (And of course, so that I can avoid people like her)
She can't grasp this. She really cannot understand this concept of not keeping, filing, and lovingly doting on every slip of paper, a money trail of my existence in this port town.

“Madam,” she says again. But no more words come forth from her perfectly lined thin mouth. (Maybe they did. Who knows. ) I’m ready to start debating this “madam” thing. When she first said it, I thought I’d misheard. As one does. I have to refrain from yelling at her that I am MS SMITH. Haughty like. I know I have to leave soon.

Anyway, the exchange of bafflement went on for a little while longer, until I finally turned and walked away, while (like a scared goat) telling her over my shoulder, so that every person in the room could also hear (very refined), that from now on I'll be sure to start a filing system, because with this bank I don't seem to have a choice.

The mystery of my bank balance remains a mystery. But I don’t care. I am not going back. I can’t. I have to recover, before I have to deposit my pay next week. Yes. My place of work, is also not into internet banking yet. We get cheques. Those little rectangular paper things, with little numbers and signatures scribbled on them?

Puff puff

On the other hand, my run in with the Scientologist is well practised by now. I see him every couple of days or so as he has business with the company I work for. So, we are already well versed in our often enough 'conversations.' Our conversations consist of him telling me about this and that, and how Scientology is assisting the police in the US and UK in order to enable them to tackle crime more effectively (I am dead serious).

Anyhoo..onwards:

A while ago, I was tired and unprepared for the sudden assault of his presence, and he managed to somehow slip a copy of some or other Sientology “documentary” dvd to me. Suffice to say is its all about the evils of psychiatry and related stuff, like pills.

Naturally, I chucked the disc and never watched it. I have a certain soft spot for drugs, specifically 'happy pills' (but that is another story.) So I was not interested in watching the propaganda against the shrinks. They aren't angels, but they aren't devils either.
Now, every time Scientology guy sees me, I am pressured, pushed, asked, queried on why I haven't seen it yet (no time. so busy. so sorry.)

We do this little exchange while I’m smoking, today, and I can see he is resisting the urge to start lecturing me on the ‘evils’ of smoking. Aha. But he resists. Good boy. See, already this is much more fun than Coiffe Lady encounter. Also, it helps that he is an extremely attractive man. One of those dark African men, whose broad shoulders squirm against the tight, yellow fabric of ...uhm. sorry.

So today, I think after our tenth polite to and fro about the damn dvd, I agreed to watch it. I got a new copy. So I'll watch it. For real this time. I think. Who knows. I might not be quite through with him pushing and prodding me (verbally).

In conclusion: While I'm no fan of yellow t-shirt wearing 'volunteer' ministers from the "church" of Scientology (and never every fantasise of them at all!!!, you know, like breaking away from the religion and fleeing into .... ) I'd rather duck and dive and dance a little dance of word tango with one of them, than talk to a bank employee. Not sure why. It’s more fun? It’s not about money? They are brighter? You figure it out.

(Tiny by-line: this very bank makes it possible for me to pay off my car, so I am grateful. A little. Not really. But just in case.)