Don't Bank On It: Part 1

I'm pleased to report after two weeks in the U.S., six hours of heavy negotiations and an hour of therapy we are the proud owners of an American bank account.
The story begins last week, when shopping in a local supermarket we noticed what looked like a school girl handing out leaflets about opening a bank account.
As with virtually every thing else Ross does these days, including taking out the trash, he assumed it was something we couldn't do without the social security numbers we still don't have.
"Oh, no," the little girl told us. "You can open an account without one. Just tell us when you get it and we'll add it to the information. But you can open an account right away."
She sat down beside a desk. I wanted to ask her if her mummy was in.
"Hi. My name's Cindy. You are? Ross? Hilary? Hi."she started clicking away at her computer. "I just went to London in March. It was neat. My favourite was the Tower of London. We had this great guide who knew all about Jack the Ripper. Maybe you've been on that tour?"
Afraid not, but I'll give it a go next time I go home.
Twenty minutes later we got to the crux. No social security number? Then we needed a utility bill confirming where we lived.
"But we don't have pay any utilities, we live a rented apartment with everything included."
Cindy looked puzzled. If she couldn't fill in the boxes on her screen she couldn't function. It was as if her oxygen supply had been cut off.
To cut a long story short we had to agree to return the next evening. One good thing is that the banks are conveniently open until 7 p.m., presumably because each transaction takes a minimum of two hours. That was our first mistake.