Bank holiday…

CHRIS BENNETT laments the passing of banking.

WHAT with the bank on one hand and the dump on the other...

Banks have become odd institutions. I have been with the same bank for more than thirty five years, during which time a lot of what I might call the solid core of living, a good home, a practical car and the wherewithal to put food on the table and words on paper have, to a not insignificant degree, been helped by the interest and understanding of that bank.

Some years ago, when I was working in Johannesburg, I had a bank manager by the name of Ernie Arrow. He was not only a good manager, but a fine human being to whose guidance and advice I warmed. He encouraged me to buy my first house, in Jan Smuts Avenue, then a quiet, leafy drive linking Rosebank and Dunkeld; now a nightmare traffic jam.

Some years later, when I was transferred to Cape Town, he gave me a letter of introduction to a colleague, the manager of the bank’s branch in Sea Point. We got on well.

The relationships were underpinned by advice my father had given me: always get on well with your bank manager and your doctor. They are in the same business – helping people.

Well not any more they ain’t.

But, thanks to the delightful help of a long time pal at the bank, I soon found out why I was being treated rather shabbily. I am too old; so much for respecting the constitution.

Talking of dumps, (by which remark I am, of course, referring to my being dumped) I recently sold my house. I have moved to a smaller one. In the course of preparing the old house for the new owner I ended up with two huge piles of garden refuse; small tree trunks, branches, leaves, twigs and all that. It took two bakkie loads to cart the stuff to the municipal dump at Glenmore, wherein lies the following tale of woe.

Accompanied by two pairs of willing hands (and willing tongues for translation) I arrived at the gate to be told “No”.

Another good citizen with a bigger load of rubbish than mine, came over and asked if I had a phone. We called the number of the office of rubbish, or whatever name it is known by, and eventually were given leave to unload our gardens’ winter detritus.

We had at first been told the dump was full. A closer inspection confirmed this and I asked the good man who gave the appearance of being in charge how frequently the truck arrived to take the stuff away. “Every day”’ he said. I sighed inward relief that he had not used “On a daily basis”.

Looking at the number if tree trunks, branches and so on, I deduced it must be one helluva truck. It took about twenty minutes to unload the bakkie into an already groaning skip. What, I wonder, is the problem?

Turning to a less frustrating matter than banks and bossies, I noticed what appears to be the beginnings of a bridge appearing near the excellent Margate Pick ’n Pay.

If this is so the people behind the edifice are to be warmly congratulated.

It has always struck me as rather shameful that in a country, a democracy nog al, where the bulk of the population relies on what we laughingly call taxis and are most of the time pedestrians, that little thought is given to the plight of these good people. Given that most drivers exceed the speed limit, crossing a main road is not a walk in the park.

This new bridge, if such it be, will be warmly welcomed and it will make life a lot easier for a lot of people.

CB

7/10/11

620wds