Entry No. 2024-06-14
This morning at the chemist, the woman behind the till pushed the card reader towards me and, without thinking, I tapped my card as usual. The screen flashed red, beeped, and displayed an unfriendly Transaction declined. I tried again, slower this time, as if maybe the machine would recognise me as someone worth trusting if I just moved more carefully.
Another card, love? she asked, still focused on her receipts.
I handed over my second card the one where my wages go and got another sharp beep of refusal. Behind me, someone let out a loud sigh, and I felt my ears burn. I stuffed the box of painkillers Id already asked for into my pocket, mumbling that Id sort it out.
I stepped outside and leaned against the wall to get out of everyones way, pulling out my phone to check my banking app. Instead of a reassuring string of numbers, all I got was a cold, grey window: Accounts blocked. Reason: enforcement order. No figure, no explanation, just a button for More details and a long strange code Id never seen.
I just stared at it, as if looking long enough would undo it. My mind raced to everything that couldnt be put off: in a week I needed to buy train tickets to visit Mum in Kent for her medical tests Id promised to drive her, booked two days off work for it after no small amount of persuasion. And now I couldnt even pay for my own medication.
I rang the banks helpline. The robotic voice asked me to rate the quality of service before anyone bothered to answer.
Hello, how can I help? The womans tone was all business not unkind, but like shed trained herself to stay detached.
I answered her barrage of questions: name, date of birth, last four digits of my passport. My accounts are frozen and theres been some mistake.
Theres an enforcement order on your profile, she said. We have to comply. Youll need to contact the County Court bailiffs. Can you see the case number?
I see it, yes. I dont even know what it is. I have no debts.
I understand, sir, but the bank isnt the instigator here. Were just following the courts requirements.
So who is the instigator? I heard my voice getting louder than I meant.
Itll be the local enforcement section, sir. I can give you their address.
She recited it for me and I scribbled it onto the back of a pharmacy receipt. My hand shook from a tangle of anger and embarrassment, like Id been caught shoplifting.
And the money? I asked. It says here, deduction.
Thats part of the enforcement order. For any refund youll need to contact the claimant or bailiff directly.
So you cant help.
I can log your complaint, if you like?
What I really wanted was someone to say, Yes, absolutely, well fix this now. Instead I listened to her reciting a reference number, in the same tone as someone at a cloakroom handing out tickets.
Your case number is She said it as if she were distributing tickets to a winter sale. Review time is up to thirty days.
I repeated the number aloud under my breath so I wouldnt forget. Thirty days it sounded like a sentence, yet I still said thank you. The words left my mouth like a goodbye at the end of a conversation, after being kicked while down.
At home, I opened my drawer of paperwork old bills, contracts, certificates. I always thought of myself as careful, always paying on time, never taking out unnecessary loans, even sorting out parking fines on the day so I wouldnt forget. I laid my passport, National Insurance card, tax code, neatly across the table, as if to testify to my honesty.
Sarah came out of the bedroom, caught sight of the spread and my face.
Whats happened?
I told her. I tried to keep my voice steady, but halfway through, it broke.
Is it some old fine? she asked, gently.
What fine racks up like this and blocks all your accounts? I stabbed a finger at my phone, where the warning still flashed. Ive literally only gone between here and work.
I was only asking, she said, hands raised. It happens these days.
That word, happens, made my skin prickle. As though my life was a statistic.
It happens that youre labelled a debtor and made to prove youre not a criminal camel, I snapped then immediately regretted the tone.
She just put a cup of water on the table beside me and left. I sat there, alone with my paperwork, feeling like the air had thinned in our house.
The next day I went into my branch. Bright lights, subdued voices the atmosphere of a newly renovated GPs surgery. People sat on plastic chairs clutching tickets, staring at the screen waiting for their number.
I took a ticket: Account queries. Sitting, I realised the process of waiting was making me irritable. The little slip of paper reduced me to a problem, not a person.
When my number came up, the young man at the counter gave me a practiced smile.
How can I help?
I showed him my app, explained the block.
I see the hold, yes, he said, clicking away. We dont have access to the court bailiffs systems. I can give you a printout of deductions and a letter confirming the restriction.
Ill take whatever you have I need it today.
The letter can take up to three working days.
But I cant even buy medicine, I said, hearing the whine in my voice and, strangely, hated that feeling even more than my anger.
He hesitated a moment.
Im sorry. Theres a set process.
I filled out the form for the letter, got a copy for myself, warm from the printer. I held onto it like it was the only weapon I had against a faceless machine, even if it was just paper and ink.
From there I went to the councils customer service centre. It smelled of cheap coffee and disinfectant that didnt quite mask the fatigue in the room. An e-queue machine and a young woman in a blue vest guided people to the right service.
I need the bailiffs, I said.
Theyre not based here, she replied. We can log your complaint, send a request, help with the government portal. What exactly is the issue?
I showed her my bank printout and the reference number.
Best to go to the County Court directly, but we can print info from your government account if its listed there.
I had no options so I took a ticket and sat. Across the room, numbers flashed and people shuffled between cubicles, clutching folders, muttering, some on the verge of tears. I looked down at my own hands they seemed older than yesterday.
At the desk, the caseworker asked for my passport.
Do you have a verified government portal profile?
Yes.
She logged in, searched for a long while.
There is an enforcement order on your record, she said at last. But the tax ID is different.
I leaned closer.
How different?
Here see? Yours is She rattled off numbers. This one differs by a single digit.
Just one number. I felt an odd relief, like air rushing back into my lungs.
So its not my debt, I said.
Looks like a data-matching mistake, she replied. Happens with people who share the same surname or similar birthday.
So what now?
We can lodge a formal objection with copies of your documents, but the court makes the final decision.
She printed and I signed the objection, attaching passport, NI, tax info. I could feel my life transformed into a stack of pages, all swallowed by a scanner.
How long will this take?
Thirty days, she said, then caught my look and added, Sometimes less.
Thirty days. I left with a folder of photocopies and a receipt with a new reference number. My own name felt less important than that number.
At the County Court itself two days later, the security man checked my bag, asked me to mute my phone. The corridor was full of people: some with children, some with envelope-padded files. On the wall, a notice: By appointment only. Next to it, a sign-in sheet already covered in neat columns of surnames.
I asked the woman in front, Is this the sign-in?
This is life, she replied dryly. First come, first served.
I scrawled my name at the bottom and perched on a windowsill. Time didnt drag, exactly it broke into irritations: someone jumping the queue, someone yelling into their phone about useless civil servants, someone sniffling behind the toilet door.
Eventually they called me in. At the desk was a bailiff, a woman maybe forty, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Her desk: a computer, a pyramid of files, an old rubber stamp.
Name? she said, not looking up.
I gave it.
Case number?
I handed over my bank printout.
She clicked, skimmed her screen. This is an unpaid loan, she announced.
I dont have a loan, I said, voice firming. Check the tax ID again, theres a mistake.
She frowned and zoomed in.
You are correct, your tax number doesnt match, but our system matched by name and birthdate.
And thats enough to freeze someones life?
She sighed. We work with the data were given. If its wrong, you need to submit an error request and provide ID. Did you already?
I placed the objection with the councils stamp before her.
Thats still with the council, she said. Hasnt reached us just yet.
I cant wait for it to reach you. I need access now. I cant even pay for my own medicine.
She finally looked up properly.
Do you think youre the only one? she said, quietly, not in anger. I have a hundred cases on my desk. I can process your statement now, but its not instant.
I wanted to shout, but seeing the weariness in her face, I kept it in. Shouting wouldnt change anything except make me just another problem in her memory.
Fine, I said, steadying my breathing. How do we do this?
She handed me the form. I wrote, Request removal from enforcement due to mistaken identity. Attached ID documents. She inked the Received stamp at the bottom.
Up to ten days for review, she said. If confirmed, well reverse the measures.
And the money?
Youll need a separate appeal for that. The claimant the other bank has to refund. Thats not my decision.
I left with a new stamped sheet. It felt like a small win, but a win over what? Over being recognised as myself, after all.
That evening I went to my boss and asked if I could have another half day off tomorrow.
You must be having a laugh? He glared at me like Id made it all up for time off. Theres a report due.
My accounts are frozen, I told him. Im stuck in red tape.
Look, he lowered his voice then. Be honest, is this about maintenance, old loans?
Worse than being refused in the chemist, that. It stung the implication.
Nothing like that, I said. Just a clerical error.
He shrugged. Alright, but make sure it doesnt come back on us. Payrolls already asking about the deductions.
Back at my desk, I saw an email from payroll: Please clarify if you have court orders. My insides twisted. I replied, Mistake, Im sorting it, will provide documents. Realising I now had to prove myself not only to the system, but to my own colleagues of ten years.
At home, Sarah asked what theyd said.
They took my statement, I replied.
Well, thats something, she said quietly. Are you sure this isnt about your brothers old loan? You were guarantor, remember?
I snapped my head up.
I was never guarantor, I said. I refused. I remember.
She nodded, but in her eyes I saw doubt. The machine had already done its damage: it had sown doubt nothing could mend, not even paperwork.
A week later the official notice landed in my government account. Fingers shaking, I opened it. It read: Mistaken identity confirmed. Enforcement measures cancelled. I read it three times to believe it.
I checked my banking app accounts unlocked, my balance restored as if nothing had happened. But a warning lingered: Some operations may be restricted until data updates. I tried paying my council tax. The payment went through with a delay, and I sat there until the spinning icon finally disappeared.
I went back to the chemist and bought the painkillers from that first day. The woman behind the till didnt recognise me. I thought about explaining all sorted now but realised how awkward thatd be. I just took my bag and left.
Two days later, the bank rang.
Weve received confirmation of enforcement removal. Your credit record may still show a flag until the credit agencies update, which could take forty-five days.
So itll leave a mark, I said.
Temporarily.
Temporarily brought no comfort. I imagined myself applying for interest-free credit to fix Mums windows next month, being told, Sir, youve had restrictions, and having to explain everything, again.
I filed the claim for my seized funds. The bailiff explained the claimant was a bank whod lent to someone else, and that the refund would come through their accounts team. I sent over the cancellation notice, deductions statement, and my bank details. The reply: Your request has been registered. Another reference number.
All this while, I noticed myself speaking more softly. As if any careless word might set it all off again. I checked my government account and banking app three times a day, ensuring that the Enforcement measures section remained blissfully empty. The emptiness became its own strange comfort.
One day, helping sort Mums paperwork at the council office, I saw a confused man with a thick folder and a lost look, clutching his number.
What are you here for? I surprised myself by asking.
They said I have a debt but I dont know where from. Bank saidcourt bailiffs
I recognised that mix of humiliation and fury.
First, get a printout from your bank showing the case number, I told him. Then here, you can print your data from the government portal. If the tax code or birthday doesnt match, submit an objection about mistaken identity. Always get a stamped receipt.
He listened as if Id handed him a map.
Thank you. Have you done this yourself?
I nodded.
Been through it. Not quickly, not completely. But I got through.
Leaving with Mums paperwork in my bag, I found myself stopping by the door to tuck documents away. The folder felt heavy, not because of the pages but from the habit of proving my existence. For the first time in weeks, my breathing felt even.
Back home, I filed everything court notice, bank letters, appeals in a new section and labelled it in marker: Enforcement Order, Error. Once, Id have found that label shameful, as if it meant guilt. Now it didnt matter. I shut the drawer, and without raising my voice, said to Sarah:
If it ever happens again, I know what to do. Im done apologising. Next time Ill demand.
She looked at me for a long while, then nodded.
Alright, she said softly. Shall I put the kettle on?
I went into the kitchen and turned on the hob. The gentle rumble of the kettle was, for that moment, enough proof that my life still belonged to me not to numbers, not to case files, but to myself.
