bank

I have an appointment at the bank—which bank?—at twelve on the twelfth. They send me a letter to say my home loan is nearly paid off and I can have a free financial health check. It’s code for: “We want you to extend your loan by remortgaging your house and buying something you don’t need, like a world cruise, a second storey or a yellow Lamborghini.”

Two out of three ain’t bad. I’ll pass on the holiday till next year and hope it won’t take a loan to get to France. The house needs serious renovations but I’m not going there. Ah, the car! I’m planning on doing that via salary packaging.

SR, the financial planner assigned for my health check, is a young bloke, small, natty, affable. I explain that money matters disappear into a black hole in my brain and wish him luck in conveying anything meaningful to me. He draws boxes and arrows, labels them with percentages. He talks me through taxes, pensions, and superannuation.

“Did you understand that?” he asks. I look at the sheet of paper. A long pause.

“Not really. Could you run that past me again?” Second time through my grip on it improves marginally. I figure a third go will make little difference.

“All right. OK,” I nod. “So you can set this up for me, the transition to retirement pension?” I understand that it’s tax-free at my age, will top up the income I sacrifice in salary packaging for a new car, and I can pay it back into my superannuation. Sounds like a fiddle, but SR assures me it’s kosher.

“Does the bank provide this as a service to me for my 55 years as a loyal customer or is there a fee for service?” He tells me the fee, ignores my loyalty. He records details from my super fund statements, asks me to email him the salary packaging quote I haven’t read yet.

He promises his own quote in about three weeks, tells me to ring with any questions in the meantime. Finally he runs me through seven pages of the Financial Services Guide, compulsory for him, meaningless to me. I wander dazed from the bank just after one.

I like SR. I trust him. I believe he’s given me good advice.

During dog-walking reflection in coming days, and as the brain ticks over in the troubled pre-dawn slumber of the fiscally-challenged, questions will emerge. I must write them down.

   

Rock on.