Open Writing

I entered business for myself at the tail end of the eighties. With the yuppie years of boom and bust behind us we were at the start of a worldwide recession, or so we were led to believe.

My early impressions of bank managers were of older smartly dressed businessmen interested in hearing about my business, its problems and my proposed solutions, knowledgeable men who through their vast experience were there to help and guide young entrepreneurs on the road to success.

Within a few years of being in business not only had my impressions changed but the managers themselves.

By the start of the nineties the philosophy of increasing profit by reducing costs was the order of the day, and so began company restructuring. Faceless number crunchers making thousands redundant with the stroke of a pen became the new business style. Nowhere was this more prevalent than in the banks themselves.

Bank managers had become younger. Discussion and problem solving was a thing of the past, unless your business fitted exactly into the preordained head office parameters, then the bank manager's mission was to hack bits off here and squeeze bits on there, until your nice round little business fitted perfectly into their square hole.

Bank managers had become Schwarzenegger-like Terminators without emotion or remorse, the only distinguishable difference being the fear shown in their eyes. Not fear of their loyal hard working customers but fear of being overlooked by head office, of missing that next important promotion or, worse still, becoming another figure in the Redundant column on a piece of paper.

Our first contact with a bank manager here in Galicia, Spain was when we initially opened our account. To open a bank account here you first need a residency number from the police station, which with the help of a villager we obtained and then walked down to the bank.

Once in the bank the manager invited us to take a seat at his desk. Whilst he sat puffing away on his cigarette our companion explained we wished to open a bank account in order to have the telephone connected.

He completed the paper work and opened the account after which he said he would contact the phone company whilst we waited. An automated answering machine responded, playing some awful music, interrupted at preset times with a request to stay on the line.

After about five minutes of holding he asked our companion to take his seat and the phone while he moved to another desk to serve someone else.

We eventually left the bank after waiting a further ten minutes, convinced that his help and service was simply due to the fact that we were English. We now know that was not the case.

Our second contact wasn't even a contact at all. The village where we were staying, Ferreira de Panton, has a population of less than a thousand but can boast four different banks, none of which have been turned into a trendy café.

We arrived one morning at our branch to find a note on the door stating "back soon". After a while a small queue had formed We decided not to wait and left.

We have found out since that this is a daily occurrence. The manager closes the branch for about half an hour to take a morning coffee in the bar three shops down.

On another occasion when we had started internet banking and were having problems a visit to the branch once again brought the manager over to spend fifteen minutes or more explaining every facet of their web site.

Whenever we meet the manager in the street he always stops and chats, just like a normal human being.

The last occasion we saw our manager was in a picturesque bar on the banks of the river Mino. He was obviously there on business as both he and his guest were drinking orange juice.

Before leaving I went to the bar to pay the bill only to find out that our bank manager had already bought the drinks for us.

So in answer to my earlier question, what is the problem with bank managers?

Not enough of them are of the helpful Spanish variety.