Helen's having a bit of a bother trying to open a bank account in merry old England. You know how it is - they want three forms of ID, utility bills, body fluids, firstborn child, etceteras.

I had a bank experience like that. It was back many a year when we were putting a new roof on my Dad's house. It was a lovely Saturday, just about 140 degrees on the roof (or near enough you couldn't tell the difference). We were pounding away and laying shingles when out of the house pops my step-mum. Normally this was a welcome occurence as she'd be bringing out iced tea or cool-aid, or perhaps sandwiches and a beer ration. Hopes for cool beverages or sustenance were crushed when a quick glance showed her hands to be empty.

Lo, she said unto me: "Jim, didn't you have to go to the bank today?" This struck me as an odd question. Of course I did. I had spoken of it quite specifically the night previous. My aquisition of my very first muscle car (a 1970 Mustang Grande) would be jeapordized were I to miss hitting the bank this day. A thought occured to me then and I asked her "Prithee, what time is it?" Her reply of "It is approximately 2 minutes before the bank closes. Or, using the New Math, it is exactly 42 seconds too late for you to get to the bank regardless of what you do to try to speed up your travel process" did not fill me with joyous feelings. However, I was always a polite lad and responded thusly. "Thank thee, m'lady. Wouldst thou care to remove thine self from my directeth patheth as I shall be travelling forthwith post haste?"

I then battled Saturday shopping traffic at the busiest supermarket in the Greater Buffalo Metro Area (despite the name it really isn't that great of an area) as I mentally counted down the pathetic store of seconds I had available to reach my destination and the picture of my beautiful racer (the 1970 Mustang Grande, for those of you with short term memory loss) grew fainter in my mind's eye. I made it into the parking lot and just barely beat some station wagon driving mom with a dozen kids in her car into the only spot within a quarter mile of the store. Okay, so technically she was already backing in to the spot but since there was enough room to sneak my Chevette in I didn't really break any laws.

So I arrived at the bank office in my ripped and tar splattered t-shirt, cutoff sweat shorts without most of the ass or crotch portions and my whole self completely soaked with sweat to the point that I looked as if I had just walked through a tropical deluge. And some harridan with a flock of kids tagging on my heels and screaming at me. But I arrived just a fraction of a second before they could get the rolly gate thing down over the counter. Heh.

I had a seriously difficult time getting my vehicle loan approved. It was a matter of proprieties as my credit wasn't in doubt. The problem was that although they very much wanted Mr.James Peacock to owe them several thousands of dollars, they were not entirely sure that I was indeed said Mr.James Peacock. We were stuck on the utility bill, of which I had none. I'm not sure why they require a utility bill. Oh, I know that it's supposed to prove that you are living where you are living but doesn't your driver's licence already do that? Isn't a lease a pretty good statement of where you reside? No, these were not sufficient. A utility bill was required and I didn't have one. It wasn't that I didn't want to have one, it was simply that I couldn't have one seeing as I was at that time renting a room from my parents and they had such an appreciation for running water and electricity that they insisted on keeping said utilities in their own name.

Eventually the loan officer realized that she was sitting in a bank branch office in a supermarket on the first really nice Saturday afternoon of spring after a hellacious Buffalo winter and she came to her senses. She accepted my military ID and library card in lieu of a utility bill and a quick peck on the cheek instead of the normal blood test and chromosome mapping.

And so by the grace of some calamitous spirit with more hated for me more than I would have expected any posthumous entity to possess I acquired a loan to purchase what was for a very short time (roughly the first ride home) my first dream car but quickly turned into a hellacious money sponge that eventually was traded in an even exchange for two cases of beer.

Youth and banking just don't mix.