Don't you hate it when a writer is obviously writing for their own pleasure rather than that of the reader, well sorry folks, in an effort to stop the steam from piping out of my blistering ears, to relieve my bubbling caustic anger, this is one such instance.

As a long suffering customer of the omnipresent behemoth that is the Hong Kong, Shanghai Banking Corporation there comes a time when one must muse upon a possible separation. This time has now come:

A couple of days ago, my immune system hit an ultimate low and allowed some strain of Flu to infiltrate my toned (Virgin Active - overpriced but well equipped) - yet apparently weak (Various drinking establishments/events companies) body. My eyeballs felt like they were about to pop out of my head from sinus pressure and i had endured a sleepless night of fever and cold sweats (slight male melodrama - granted!). With no medicine in the house i had to venture my way to the not-so-local Boots in the blistering 30 degree heat (f*c***g global warming!). Once into the air-conditioned Boots, salvation had come in the form of Sanjiv the ever-so friendly pharmacist. After providing me swiftly with the chemical haul i was greedy for - who could have known the untold woe that was ahead of me.

%%%%%>>>> CARD DECLINED <<<<<%%%%%

I was hit by confusion, as i knew i had money in the blasted account, so why in blue-blazes was i being declined at such a crucial moment for both my physical and mental health. Luckily - after many years of balance checking as a student i dialled my telephone banking with impressive speed and touch-tone menu agility - Craig answered cheerily on the phone.

And thus the investigation began. I was passed from department to department, card fault explanation to card fault explanation. Something wrong with my chip. Something to do with my expiry date - "Hold on sir, lets see if we can get it fixed for you" . By this time thirty minutes had passed and i was feeling woozy - and anger was growing (not a great combo) i had left Boots and was crumpled on the floor head in hands, phone pressed against ear. Would there be a resolution? Apparently so - Craig informed me that 'A marker' was now lifted from the card and to try it in a machine. Let me skip the mechanics of this operation, to the plain infuriation - when i am frantically inputting my pin for what seems like the millionth time 25 minutes later only to be greeted with a Card Fault sign again and again.

After the hour had passed i was informed i had best go to the local branch to withdraw funds.

The Branch

I arrive at the branch and stride swiftly toward the cash desk - only to be abruptly halted by the 'reception assistant' - who then informed me that i needed to see an adviser to withdraw funds without a card or cheque book. My cotton-wooled mind was not ready for such bruising alteration of my flight-path, so even with this seemingly small diversion - i rippled with anger. This was all a change in my HSBC routine, but eager to get it over and done with i followed suit:

"Ok- fine, where do i find him?".

"You will have to wait sir, downstairs."

And with this, the short man in the suit handed me a ticket - like the ones you get at the cheese counter in a supermarket, printed with:

54-74 minutes wait

Oh dear.

To say i lost my rag - would be a massive understatement. This short, generic, under-achiever was about to place me in a queue of mortgage applicants - for a thirty second ID verification to withdraw £20 pounds. While i stopped short of obvious verbal abuse - i came close - informing anyone that would listen that whoever had decided on such a ludicrous policy, obviously had no clue on how to sensibly manage crowds. Eventually 15 minutes after repeatedly being rebuffed, i went and sat downstairs. Watching NEWS 24 was a small relief of tension, until i realised i had seen the same bulletin three times. The coffee was a help - until it made me fidgety. I was sat among a room of account and mortgage applicants with wads of paper as thick as yellow pages - and there i was holding my cheese counter ticket controlling the inner fury.

I ventured upstairs at the 40 minute milestone, hoping to either grind the automaton HSBC staff down to letting me push in the queue or at least pass some time by accosting anyone i could for a good and semi-satisfying rant. I got another coffee and sat downstairs again - defeated, i mused on whether or not i had been a complete failure against the corporate monster - missed my mouth and spilled coffee down my front... "MR WILLIAMS!?"

I had at last been called, was i now angry, relieved, embarrassed - or just plain exhausted? I traipsed silently to the booth - coffee dribble over my shirt, sniffing and aching with illness. I showed my driving license - and got taken upstairs to the cash counter after a couple of taps on the computer. I filled in the form and took the cash. That was it. All over.

On my way out i meekly asked the under-achiever for the manager's email address to complain to. He took his card out of his jacket - the underachiever WAS the manager.Barely registering, and too knackered to engage i eyed him with contempt and headed in Boots' direction.

And so here ends the rant.