Revenge of the Teen Bank Tellers

Since internet banking I've become completely allergic to physically entering banks, but every now and again one has to break this rule. I wasn't going to do so lightly, so I called the bank first, to get a list of all the paperwork they'd be wanting – like my dog's birth certificate, no more than 3 months old, etc. I spoke to a charming young gentleman by the name of Jodian. He even e-mailed me a checklist within 5 minutes. Suitably impressed, I packed my padkos and headed for the bank.

It had clearly been a while since the last time I went inside my bank. Between then and now they must have fired all the grown-ups and replaced them with teens. From his name badge, I recognised Jodian, the "charming young gentleman" I had spoken to on the phone. "Young" was indeed the operative word: the kid did not look a day over fifteen. And he was the supervisor! Just to compound my first impression of having stepped inside a kindergarten, it was football Friday, so the staff were in T-shirts with FNB/ FIFA bibs over them – they looked like they'd just come from netball or soccer practice after school.

By the time I was seated in front of one of the next available personal banker (Charlene), I had given myself a good talking to. I had explored the highly likely possibility that banking staff were probably not getting all that much younger, but that I, in fact was getting a bit older. And of course I felt like a right old cow for discriminating against teens when the teen helping me did a brilliant job with my request. She was efficient, pleasant, matter-of-fact, communicative and professional and she totally overhauled my preconceptions about er…very, very young people.

Just as we were about to wrap up our business, someone who looked like they may have been pushing 21, stopped behind Charlene's desk. I was a little annoyed at what I assumed was going to be an interruption but I decided to keep quiet. Actually, there was no verbal interruption. The Supervisor just stopped at the desk long enough to look pointedly at Charlene and to leave a bright yellow post-it note on her desk. Charlene remained uber professional and didn't so much as glance at the note. I, on the other hand, was waiting for some documents, so I decided to kill time by satishying my curiosity. I don't know if the super supervisor thought I couldn't read or what, because she had hardly been discreet in her actions. To top it off, her handwriting was so big, you'd have had to be either illiterate or completely blind not to be able to read it – even up-side down. Here's what it said:

"Smile! And make eye-contact with the customer!! :)"

Seriously? The Head Girl was interrupting Charlene's highly efficient delivery of my request so that she could remind her to grin and look me in the eye?

In any case, passing notes in class is completely against the rules.

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