I think I mentioned before that the Brits are a wee bit paranoid. In fact, they'd give Howard Hughes a good run for his money, and the dude was loaded.
The paranoia seems to be pretty widespread and permeates day to day life. Want to walk down the street? Be prepared to say cheese for the cameras that could be found about every fifty feet. The good news is that should you get stabbed in the middle of Oxford Street, the police are much more likely to have a good idea of who did it. Yay! Want to take a nice drive through London? Watch out for the yellow speed cameras at every intersection. Fine, forget driving - how 'bout riding in one of the famed London taxis? Heed the warning that you may be filmed while you're a passenger, so no funny stuff unless you want to be one of those stories that the taxi drivers share at their local pub after work, AND they've got video. (By the way, did you know that every taxi driver has to pass a test called "the Knowledge" in order to become a taxi driver? The Knowledge comprises of knowing every single street in London, and they have to pass an oral exam. If you've ever seen a map of London streets, you'd realize that the SATs were a breeze in comparison.)
We even have CCTV at our house! If you should ring the intercom for our flat, we get a very clear video image of you before we decide to let you in. Imagine the possibilities! Blind date? Screen them! The in-laws surprise you with a visit? You're not home! A potential rapist and/or murderer is trying to get in? Don't let them! The possibilities are endless! Incredible, this is even more amazing than Cham-Wow!
Don't worry, the paranoia is not limited to just cameras - they're also very worried about fire. This one's a bit more understandable with London burning down so many times and all, but dude, that was like three hundred years ago. Our kitchen has a fire extinguisher and fire blanket, and most of the flats here have doors everywhere since they slow the spread of fire. Now, I'm not against doors or anything, but I'm getting a bit tired of opening them and they're heavy. They're in my kitchen, they're in the dining room, they're everywhere I don't want them to be. Fire extinguishers are cool, but there's a pair of them every 25 feet or so, which makes me entirely all too aware that the building I'm in could burn to the ground any second.
And the king of all paranoia - the banks. I hate the banks.
You can't open a bank account without proof of UK residency, which is hard to do when you've just moved here. Once you prove you live here with three different kinds of identification and a vial of blood from your oldest living ancestor, they'll send you your bank documents. But not all at once. Oh no, the joy of completing the process in one fell swoop may kill you! First, they'll send you your bank card. Then they'll send you your PIN, which you need to use your card. Then they'll activate your card. But only over the phone. With five security questions that you need to answer. They know more stuff about me than J does.
Then you get to put money in your account. But not too much. They have a secret limit to the amount of cash that you can deposit at once. They won't tell you, no, they're much too clever for that. You can guess, but you will be wrong. If you should attempt to do so, they will quiz you about the source of the money - are you a drug dealer? Do you engage in illegal activities? How do we know that your parents gave you the money? Who are your parents? Where do they bank? How did they get the money? Please trace the money up to the point they came off the presses at the US Mint. Arghhh! And btw, I'm not joking about these questions.
Once you're done with the fiasco of actually getting a bank account and putting money in it, good luck getting it back out. They're like the pimp, and you're their bitch. You hand over your hard earned money, and they "hold on to it for you." Which basically means you'll have to pry it out of their cold dead hands if you should ever actually want to take it out and use it, god forbid. There was a story in the news the other day about a British woman who went to Germany for cancer treatment and needed to pay the clinic a large amount of money, and the bank refused to release the money. She called, her husband called, and her daughters called over a period of five days, but all to no avail. Until the media caught wind of it. Then the bank released the money. WTF? Did I mention that the woman was terminally ill? Nice going, NatWest.
But don't get it twisted, I like it here. Why? Because I like not getting stabbed without the guy who did it getting caught, burning sounds like a painful way to go, and money comes in pretty useful. But maybe they should heed the words of the honorable Judge Alex Kozinski - "Parties are advised to chill."
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