At long last, it was agreed that I could get a bank account and those wondrous, magical pieces of plastic that are the gateway to bliss – “You can have a debit, not a credit card,” I was told sternly. “That means you can’t spend more than what you already have, so you don’t run up debts.”
This preceded a lecture about responsible decisions and something about stuff growing on trees, which wasn’t particularly riveting.
My thought process was running more along the lines of “Hello, Harvey Nichols and then maybe a stop at Barclays”.
But before that there were forms to fill and documents to assemble. There was a bit of a wait at the bank; lots of students were opening accounts. But the wait was just a trifling matter; it would lead to a bank account, which would lead to interest, which translates into more money, which translates into more shoes.
Finally, a man who looked like he belonged to London’s Threadneedle Street asked me to step into his office. Tapping away importantly on his laptop, he unveiled a fresh sheaf of forms with a flourish. I resignedly began scratching out my nationality, birthday and passport number for about the millionth time since the commencement of the whole university application process.
It so happens that the banker’s parents lived on The Palm. He tapped his nose knowingly when he saw what city my permanent address was in. “I know everything about Dubai – everything there is to know.” He nodded three times. “Sheikh Zayed Road? I know it.”
I congratulated him and he murmured if I could sign on the dotted line and then shooed me out. Bankers never boom, but always murmur deferentially, maybe to soothe and coax people into leaving their money with them.
The chequebook arrived pristine and gleaming in the post. What says “responsible adult” more than having your own chequebook? I’m a bit scared of using it, but I do like taking it out of the locked recesses of the drawer to admire it.
I’m still more confident using dirhams than pounds, so I end up taking ages to figure out which coin is worth how much, annoying everyone behind me in queues at stores. The debit card, however, is much more fun and easy to use. I immediately embarked on a frenzied shopping spree (purely for essentials) when I got it. Obviously the flimsy jackets I bought in Dubai aren’t going to keep me warm in a cold country. The new shirts, pairs of denims and boots are to go with the colour schemes of the new jackets; I can’t look like a mismatched, psychedelic Dr Seuss character.
Because you’re swiping cards instead of handing over notes and pennies, you underestimate how much you spend in the beginning. I’m off to get a mini-statement from the ATM outside college now. It’s the only downside to the whole affair – the dread of discovering how much, or how little, money you have left. What was an overdraft again?
The writer is an 18-year-old student at Cambridge who grew up in Dubai
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