1) HSBC. Or, to avoid accusations of libel, I will hereby state that we dealt, not with HSBC, but with a large multinational bank with a red-and-white logo whose name rhymes with "HSBD". There, safe. So, at "HSBD", we dealt with our first mong.
(Breaking news: in England 'mong' and 'tard', while doubtless offensive, are used as punctuation, much like most other offensive words. Perhaps prolonged exposure to Canada's more enlightened verbal attitudes will change how I talk, but for now, the woman who dealt with opening our "HSBD" bank account was a mong.)
You don't score any points with me in particular for misspelling my name, especially if what you're doing is data entry from a form I've just filled in right in front of you. She also managed to mistranscribe our address, which would have led to all sorts of fun as the apartment ten floors below us got all our mail. And she also seemed confused as to why we wanted to opt out of junk mail. "Gee, I get all sorts of junk mail where I live, and I don't know why," she said with apparent dead seriousness. Yes, that would be because you don't tick the bloody boxes saying "You don't need to sell me life insurance and other such rubbish". You mong. Above and beyond that, she seemed insistent that ticking these boxes would somehow impede our service from HSBC. Quite why this should be the case I don't know. If it is the case, our account will get switched real fast.
Which, if we want it done, will cost us anything between $13 and $19. Banking in Canada is not free. I grant that banks in England are resorting to all kinds of moneysaving measures in order to remain free, or possibly just to annoy us all and preserve profits, seeing as how discussions about the inevitability of charged banking have been cropping up on business news lately. But the point is, in England you do not currently have to pay 50p to the bank for them just to process a withdrawal or transfer. If the HSB-lahlahlah building in downtown Vancouver wasn't shiny, beautifully-architected, twenty storeys high and nicely furnished, not to mention staffed by mongs who take twice as long to do things as I would expect, I would have less of a problem with this.
Long-time readers (all this week) will recall that we have opted for HSB-whoever in about ten seconds of random panicked thought, mostly because we'd heard of the name. Actually Citizens' Bank did suggest them when they declined our business.
Something else, while I'm here. Our HSBC mong told us how Canadian credit cards work. Apparently, twenty years of credit history in England is useless to me here. Because why would it be? Why would it be even remotely possible for HSB-ahem in Canada to ask HSB-whatever in England to ask Natwest, my bank back there, to provide a statement of my creditworthiness? Likewise, why on Earth would it be a logical-sounding request for Barclaycard to communicate with a Canadian Visa card supplier to tell them that I'm ever such a promptly-paying panda? I know. It seems ludicrous of me to even suggest the idea. Stupid, stupid Gil. It turns out that in order to get an HSB-hmph credit card, we must (a) wait several months, (b) put $2000 into an escrow account, (c) use the card safely and cautiously for a year, (d) then we can have our $2000 back. Don't even ask how impressed I am with that.
2) Sears. In which we sought a toaster (because the one in the apartment died quite quickly, and was a bit rubbish anyway) and a hairdryer (because Sarah's hair looks amusing without one) and a mattress topper (because the bed is so hard I managed to put a rib out on my second night). What we found was the world's most expensive toaster - $499. That's £250. For a toaster. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition, my life's dream has been fulfilled - but what is it, gold-plated? It was perhaps a little daft of Sears to put this toaster out front, making it the first household appliance we saw. The shop assistant, a very chatty Gaile (they're all very chatty out here, on account of the fact that anyone might be a mystery shopper who will get them sacked for inattentiveness to a customer's needs) explained that they do actually sell plenty more of the cheap ones which we found round the corner. The mattress topper has been a success. Dunno about the hairdryer yet.
3) The Shanghai Chinese Bistro on Alberni Street. Mmm-mmm. We ate here several times in September, and it's still as nice. Same majordomo, same high-quality service, same delicious food. Tonight we got to see a chef preparing a noodle. A noodle is a bloody massive affair. Quite how he manipulates it until it becomes many long thin threads of noodle, I don't know. (I think we looked away for five seconds, and when we looked back, magic! It had been noodled.) Sarah points out that the word "noodles" is nice, but the word "noodle" is incredibly funny. I agree. A small prize (not really) to anyone who can explain why.
Today's amusing photos are a horrendously-coloured top and, er, Osama Bear Laden.
And thus to bed.
Incidentally, in case anyone thinks Canada is grating on my nerves, that I'm regretting coming out here, or that I'm going to be an Englishman abroad ("it's all much better back home") - nope, or at least not intentionally. The last couple of entries have been grumpy in tone because (a) I'm catching up with a lot of this blogging on Sunday, when I have a mild cold, the apartment heating isn't working, Sarah is a bit ill, my new laptop is being a bit irritating, and it's raining, and (b) actually, OK, I'll admit it, because several of the things we've experienced since arriving would not have happened in England, and have been extremely exasperating ways for Canada and its businesses to welcome us to the country. However, I do appreciate that this is because I have thirty-six years of experience with how things are done in England, and four days of familiarity with Canada. Doubtless the balance will swing. I'm trying, I really am...
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