Case of the vanishing bank account unnerves expat
Imagine my surprise last week when I noticed that several thousand pounds sterling had disappeared from my online building society account.
It was set up just before I came to China three years ago so I could keep track of my modest savings and meet any unexpected bills in my absence back in Britain. It seemed a tech-savvy way to bridge 8,000km and retain some kind of a financial safety net.
Panic rising, I found a link titled 'Is any of your accounts missing?' and went through the complicated process of reporting the lost loot. A day or so later, I received a reassuring e-mail from the support staff 'delighted' to report that my accounts were all intact, but offering no explanation as to why they had gone on a short walkabout.
I logged on again and, sure enough, all was well. But the damage was done. The seeds of doubt had been sown a month or so previously when I had difficulty accessing my Lloyds TSB bank account back home. I was told I would have to 'reactivate' the account with a phone call to customer support 'to answer some security questions.' That was when I seriously started to question just how convenient this 'permanent' access to my accounts really was.
After five long minutes listening to several options and looped segments of Mozart, I was put through to 'Ross', who said he would ask me a random computer-generated question to confirm my identity. Already I felt like I was on trial for trying to check my own bank balance. Ross then gave me the number of a cheque I had written and asked me to confirm what the amount had been.
Simple enough - unless your cheque book happens to be 8,000km away and the last cheque you wrote was five months ago. I could sense growing suspicion in Ross's voice as I tried to explain this. 'Er, could you ask me another one?'
'You see, the problem is the computer asks only one question,' replied Ross. If he had asked for the name of my first pet, or which bank teller in my home branch wears a wig, or even a trivia question about British television comedy of the 1980s, I would have had a shot. Frustrated though I was (the long-distance call was dragging on a bit, and things were not going according to plan), I could empathise with Ross. He was just doing his job.
How could he know I was calling from Beijing and that I was not some chancer who had got hold of someone else's bank details? I could be anyone. I had never met Ross, and probably never will. My only alternative was to have a letter sent to my home address 8,000km away that would allow me to apply for a new password. Hardly convenient.
Despite my best efforts to harness the information superhighway, I was snarled in an old-fashioned bureaucratic paper chase. And that was when I realise how complicated I had made my simplified lifestyle in China.
I have to remember to take a swipe card to buy food from my workplace canteen, and another to enter my apartment block. There is a keypad and a four-digit access code too, but they keep changing the number, and anyway I get that mixed up with my debit card account and the combination of my bicycle lock.
Trying to simplify my e-mail with separate accounts for work and personal use only doubles the amount of spam I receive, and forces me to remember an extra password. The internet building society account, meanwhile, had a 10-digit customer account number and a 'memorable data' question for added security. But that still does not prevent my cash vanishing for a few hours.
Is it any wonder, then, that my salary in China is stashed in an empty Kit-Kat tin under the mattress?
