If you’ve never switched country of residence, you may not appreciate how complicated and ongoing a saga this is. In a nutshell, you don’t officially exist. Anywhere. For years. It’s like being a black ops secret agent, only without the custom-made suits, without phones that never need charging and that get great reception in rainforests, deserts, and underground bunkers, and without credit cards that work all over the globe and don’t get shut down because the bank thinks that trip abroad constitutes fraud. Yeah. It’s like that. But two to three years into this relocation tale, you’d think I should have a pretty good handle on existing in England. I’m here to tell you, I do not.

It’s the little things that still trip me up, like trying to check my US Social Security account. I discover the verification code to access the account will only be sent to my US phone number which no longer exists seeing as I now have a UK number. There is, of course, no one to talk to about this outside the US embassy in London. That’s going to be a fun day out. Then there’s last week’s joy at the bank…

I set up a Monzo bank account when I first arrived back in the UK. Monzo is an online bank specializing in expats. It understands no UK bank will take on returning expats without an address (but… but … you can’t rent or buy without a bank account!) and sixty forms of proof you existed once in this country. Luckily, Monzo agreed I did in fact exist and I’m very happy with them. Unfortunately, Hubby was turned down by said Monzo. No reason has to be given and apparently this happens a lot with Monzo. So, after much stress, countless months, and intervention from the UN, NASA, a cousin who once wrote a paper on organized crime, and several TikTok influencers, Hubby managed to get a UK bank account.

The only fly in the Monzo ointment for me is it doesn’t provide credit cards, just debit cards. Large purchases are better protected on a credit card, so I’d like a credit card. Please. Which is why I’m sitting in a well-known British bank office with Hubby getting my name added to his accounts, trying to understand how it could possibly take so long to get new credit cards approved and wishing we could all just revert to stuffing our mattresses with money again to save all the banking fees.

Hubby and I are perched on chairs like naughty children in the headmaster’s office waiting to see how many ways we can be refused credit cards because we still don’t exist, even though Hubby has an account at this bank. What we aren’t prepared for is a language barrier. I’m British and Hubby speaks pretty good English. For an American. Assuming this was good enough, we crossed ‘language difficulties’ off the list of things to worry about. Mistake.

The friendly bank manager (everyone’s friendly until they discover you don’t exist) taps away on her terminal.

Bank Manager: ‘Let me just take a butcher’s at your account.’

Hubby: ‘Butchers?’

Bank Manager: ‘Yes, won’t be a moment.’

Hubby: ‘Sorry…’ (Yes, he’s been in England long enough now to start every sentence with ‘sorry’) ‘… what’s meat got to do with this?’

Bank Manager: ‘Sorry?’

Hubby: ‘Sorry, but meat? We don’t need the credit cards for meat.’

Bank Manager (by now I’d like to shorten this to BM but feel it wouldn’t be appropriate – even for bankers): ‘Sorry. I don’t understand.’

Hubby, throwing himself back in his chair, and directing his frustrated glare at me: ‘What is she talking about?’

I rewind the conversation in my head. I’m a wordsmith. I also have a master’s degree in communication disorders. Surely I can work out the disconnect here.

Me: ‘Ah, I see. “Butcher’s” has thrown you.’

Hubby: ‘And it hasn’t thrown you?’

Me: ‘No, because I’m aware of the Cockneys.’

Hubby, eyes on storks: ‘Cockneys? And meat? I daren’t even ask!’

Bank Manager: ‘I’m confused too. Cockneys?’

Oh. My. Dear. God. Does no one speak English? ‘Cockneys.’ I pull up Wikipedia on my phone and read out loud: ‘Cockney is a dialect of the English language, mainly spoken in London and its environs, particularly by working-class and lower middle-class Londoners since the 19th century. The term Cockney is also used as a demonym for a person from the East End, or, traditionally, born within earshot of Bow Bells.’

Bank Manager: ‘I know what a Cockney is but what’s that got to do with butchers?’

My eyebrows disappear into my hairline. The English don’t understand what they are saying in English?

Me: ‘Cockney rhyming slang.’

Hubby, shifting uncomfortably in his chair: ‘Could we please stop discussing “cockney” and “meat” in close proximity and what’s any of this got to do with credit cards?’

Bank Manager: ‘What’s Cockney got to do with butchers?’

Me: ‘You brought it up.’

Bank Manager: ‘No, I didn’t. I said I was going to take a look at your account.’

Hubby: ‘No, you didn’t. You opened your laptop and said you were ordering meat!’

My head hurts and I’m reviewing all the reasons we really need a credit card as opposed to a debit card and questioning if it’s worth it. At this point Hubby and Bank Manager are glaring at each other and I can see tomorrow’s headline: ‘International Incident Begins in Taunton Bank. PM and President Advised.’ I can either stand up and walk out or explain to the Americans and the Brits what everyone’s talking about. We need a credit card so I can’t walk out. Explain it is.

Me: ‘Cockney rhyming slang, used originally to outwit and confuse the police in certain areas of London. Words are exchanged for an often-rhyming phrase, for example, “apple and pears” equals stairs, “trouble and strife” equals wife, “bread and honey” for money, “dog and bone”, phone. With me so far?’

Hubby: ‘Meat?’

Bank Manager: ‘Butchers?’

Me: ‘“Butcher’s hook” equals look. “Let me take a butcher’s” is short for “let me take a butcher’s hook”, Cockney rhyming slang for “let me take a look”.’

Bank Manager: ‘Oh, I didn’t know that.’

Hubby: ‘Sorry, what? Just to recap, our bank manager is trying to hide what she’s doing from the cops?’

Bank Manager: ‘Sorry, what? I’m just looking at your account!’

I start to say, ‘For the love of Pete!’ but realise I have no idea where that expression comes from and trying to explain to Hubby why I’m angling for the love of someone called Pete doesn’t sound like a good idea right now. I shut my mouth and rest a hand on Hubby’s arm. ‘Let’s just let this lady do her job and get out of here.’

We settle back into our seats and several days pass as the bank manager taps and clicks away on her screen.

Bank Manager: ‘Everything looks good in the account for a credit card. Now, how many forms of ID do you have with you.’

Me: ‘Five.’

Bank Manager: ‘Sorry, we need fifty-two.’

‘Butcher’s hook’ turns out to be a handy swear phrase if produced with sufficient gusto.

I still don’t have a credit card.

Images: Flickr, Public Domain Images