When your bank rediscovers the case for human contact

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So now they want to talk. My banking relationship manager has been in touch and would like to schedule a call. This could be a good thing. There are a couple of areas where we could definitely move to the next level. For a start, I have no idea who he or she is, which, when you think about it, suggests the relationship could use some work.

The trouble is I’m beginning to suspect we want different things from each other. The text suggesting we hook up said the bank wanted to “discuss its service”, which is useful since I, for example, want to be able to call them easily and did not want them to end quarterly paper bank statements, as I am old-fashioned enough to want proof of what they owe me. And yet, I sense they simply want to explain the imaginative ideas they have for greater custody of my savings.

Mind you, since we are getting all personal, perhaps I should offer to drop in on my local branch (which is no longer local) to meet with my manager (who no longer exists). Or how about a coffee at the bakery that now stands where the branch was? Bring a plastic pen so I know who you are.

I like to imagine a session of couples therapy to iron out some of the rough patches. They take me for granted. I’m only allowed to talk to them by message or through an app. I feel like I’m just a number to them. Well, a number, and a date of birth, and a mother’s maiden name.

Alternatively, I could agree to speak but direct them to my automated line. “Press 1 if you have ideas for my savings, 2 if you really would like to know how to improve the service or press 3 if you are prepared to listen to my complaints so that we can get on to your ideas for my savings. Press 4 to be abruptly disconnected. Press 5 if you have a problem that is really stressing you out so that we can play you some music. Please hold, your call is important to me, though not as important as binge-watching The Crown. You are currently 56th in line to the throne and we will be with you after episode seven.”

These do seem to be the banks’ preferred methods of contact. And yet, it appears the same banks that are snuffing out high-street branches and endeavouring to move all interactions to their app or chatbot, are still rather convinced by the value of human contact when they want something from us. Suddenly, a phone call is just the ticket.

Perhaps I’m just feeling a bit jaded after a tiresome interaction with a utility company in an argument over a bill. Knowing that a phone call usually involves the kind of wait that gets rail projects cancelled, I tried the live chat box. At first it was automated and useless. Then it was human and not a great deal better. There was a script for my problem, and it did not include resolving it to my satisfaction.

A long circular argument followed, in which I tried to explain that since my account was substantially in credit due to a previous overpayment, I wanted their current demand taken from my surplus funds and an end to the aggressive texts and messages. For reasons understood only in Gringotts School of Accounting, this was not possible. Finally, I dialled for a human and there turned out to be a solution. My error, in hindsight, was being in credit. Had I been in arrears, they would have called me.

I am not starry-eyed about human interaction. Customer service staff can be just as jobsworthy as any chatbot, but you always feel there is the chance of igniting an ember of empathy.

So perhaps my message to the bank is, yes, let’s talk. I am ready to commit. But by ready to talk, I mean a relationship of mutual convenience. A phone number that does not direct me to the automated equivalent of an episode of The Crystal Maze but gets answered by a human, preferably within the same calendar year.

This “don’t call us, we’ll call you” approach is taking the romance out of our relationship. I’m beginning to think they are only in this for the money.

Email Robert at robert.shrimsley@ft.com

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