When I opened my first bank account, at the age of 12, it was a thrilling moment. It felt like my initial brush with adulthood, and – in a good way – with officialdom. I got some Our Price CD vouchers in the post as a thank you for choosing Barclays; and gained a real sense of independence. Never mind that my opening balance was only about 25 quid. I was suddenly a man of (potential) means.
A month or so ago, we finally got around to opening a current account for our daughter, who was 13 last autumn. It turned out to be a bit of a faff because it required an in-person visit to the bank: the one in question doesn’t have a branch in our town. Indeed, of the six banks and building societies that operated when we arrived here in 2008, only two remain, and one of those is rarely open.
At the Lloyds in a neighbouring town, there were forms to fill out, and the adviser gave our child a serious talk about how to be responsible with her cash. Eventually, the deed done, she came home with that same sense of financial grown-upness I’d felt 31 years ago – and a similar lack of spending power.
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