It all started so well. I’d not had any real contact with anyone from my bank for over two years and I desperately needed a face-to-face meeting with a qualified person to tackle a couple of issues I’d found impossible to sort out using the bank’s call centre. He’d very kindly come to my farmhouse.

He couldn’t have been more helpful in dealing with my concerns but should have left at that point. Instead, he made the terrible mistake of asking me if there was anything else the bank could do to improve the service it was offering.

I’ve never been very fond of banks, so this was the proverbial red rag. The relaxed atmosphere evaporated faster than you can say ‘overdraft arrangement fee’ as I reminded my visitor that I’d banked with his employer since before he was a twinkle in his father’s eye and, in those far-off, halcyon days, all transactions on my bank account had been free of charge. So, why was I now being levied fees?

I then pointed out that the large amount of money I borrowed from the bank in my youth was only ever charged at a lending rate of 1% over base. So, why was it that, with my current modest overdraft facility, I was now being charged 2% over base?

He tried to explain that when base rates are low, banks tend to increase their lending margins, but I barely heard him as I was now on a real roll. Instead, I complained that rather than receive an occasional visit from the bank by a representative covering several counties in the South East, I once used to be able to visit my local branch whenever I liked. There, in a lovely panelled office, would be the familiar face of the manager with whom I could chat through any worries or problems I had. Better still, these meetings all happened over a nice cup of tea served in fine bone china. During the afternoon, indeed, there were even scones on offer, brought in on a nice silver tea tray. “And what happened to that lovely old branch and friendly staff?” I demanded from him, not waiting for him to answer. “Closed and sacked, respectively!”

Trying to lighten the mood, he pointed out how nice it was to come to visit farms and “get away from the office for a bit”. I replied that he should think himself lucky to be allowed on my property at all as my grandfather had always told me to “never let a banker on your farm”. In his day (the farming recession years of the 1920s and 1930s) even the sight of a banker walking across a farmer’s field was taken to be a ‘foreclosure visit’. If reported locally, agricultural merchants would immediately cut off any lines of credit to the farmer.

He was now looking at me as if I were a madman. Then, just as I was launching into a tirade about the idiotic collective tendency of banks to increase lending just when they should be anticipating a recession and reducing lending, he declared that he was “already late for his next appointment” and made his escape.

I wonder when I’ll get my next visit from the bank? I fear it could be longer than two years.