A Call for Help

Customer Help Line Call Centres in Britain have got a pretty skunky reputation. Often this is because they are located far from the scene of the action in some far flung part of the former Empire where rice and labour are both cheap and available and the 'on hold' music is played on a sitar.
The exotic appeal of this, accompanied by the strong odour of garam marsala, when attempting to locate the last train from Biggleswade, does much to enliven the business of rail travel. And, a good many other services adopt the same policy.
Here in France, we don't have the same problem, probably due to a shortage French speakers in India.
As a man of the world myself, I maintain a modest bank account in the UK and, yesterday, I needed to take a look at it by way of the internet banking service provided by these guardians of my wealth.
Since I rarely trouble to do this, not unnaturally, I had forgotten a few minor details of the procedure. Like most of us now, the number of passwords, secret questions (what was the name of your favourite teacher at school? I didn't have one – I hated them all) and codes for reinstalling your software when it all goes kerplump, that one has to keep on file would fill the London telephone directory.
After six goes to access my account, I gave up. Or rather the software did. Bossily, it said I'd got it wrong too many times and they were taking their ball back.
I dialled the help line and settled down to browse through the Encyclopaedia Britannica, as one does when in for a long wait. I figured that I would at least make it to Krasnokamsk – Menadra before I got an answer but I had not even got stuck into A-Ku-Ta, who, as you know, founded the Chin dynasty, when a very English voice asked 'could he help me?'
I explained my problem and, as is my wont, while he was tapping away at his keyboard, I engaged him in a bit of trifling persiflage to pass the time.
“Your English is jolly good,” I said, “where are you calling from?”
“Leicester,” he replied. At which the line went dead, no doubt a supervisor having pulled the plug on hearing his indiscretion. Call centres are, by law, supposed to be located in Mumbai.
I redialled.
On the second ring, a charming female voice enquired 'could she help me?'
“You're calling from Leicester, aren't you,” says I.
“Yes, how did you guess?”
“By your accent – I've got an ear for this sort of thing.”
“I'm from Swansea.”
I must say that girls from that part of the world give lie to the claim that education is lacking in Britain. In a trice she identified my problem.
“Are you typing it in all upper case?” she asked, adding, as clearly she regarded me as a bit of a nut, “I mean in the big letters.”
And, by golly, she was right first time.
So this particular call centre gets top marks from me. It would be indiscreet of me to mention the name of the bank, since you all might rush to move your accounts there and overwhelm the service.
But for crossword puzzle lovers, I can tell you that its name has four capital letters, you know, the big ones, and that it seems to have started life in the Far East.
Other than that, my lips are sealed.