Third Time Lucky

Another year, another long, stupid battle with Student Finance Direct to try and explain to them that I am doing a four year physics course. Last year they thought I was doing a three year electronics course, the year before that I’d forgotten to sign a declaration, and this year they excelled themselves by sending out no fewer than three pieces of paper telling me, against all the available evidence, that I am doing a six year course.

In what turned out to be a vain attempt to correct this, I phoned their support number. After keying in no less than seventeen digits of instructions to the automated machine I finally got to the queue of people waiting to speak to an advisor, and was forced to listen to Junior Senior (but it was the remix where a scottish guy occasionally interrupts it to explain that I’m in a queue).

“Hello, Student Finance Direct, can I take your– how can I help you?”

“Hi, I’ve just got my support notification and there’s some information on it that’s very wrong.” I explained the problem

“Okay, can I take your ART-ID?” For those of you who aren’t in the know, an ART-ID is an eleven digit ID number that identifies my Student Finance Direct account, and makes up approximately two thirds of the seventeen digits I had already typed. Inexplicably, ART stands for ‘Automated Response’.

“Do you have your letter with your password and secret answer?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to ask you for two characters from your secret answer, okay?”

“Okay.” There was a pause. A long pause. “Any two in particular?”

“Hang on, it’s taking a while to come up. Oh, it’s coming up that you haven’t been sent one. Are you sure you’ve got it.”

“No, I must be holding an imaginary one in my hand, then.”

“Alright, I’ll change that, so next time you phone up you can use it.” There won’t be a next time. I’m doing it online next time. It’s a damn sight cheaper. “In the meantime, I’m going to ask you some questions so I can get into your account.”

“Okay.” She asked for my name and date of birth, address and phone number, and those were provided. I thought I was in, but then, she said…

“National Insurance number?”

“What? No.” This had thrown me somewhat. It’s my national insurance number; I wasn’t expecting no need it to change my course from a fictional one to a real one. Clearly 2007 is the wrong date. You don’t need a national insurance number to know that.

“I’m afraid I can’t get into your account without your national insurance number.” Probably if I had provided it she would have just asked more and more arcane details until she beat me… “Foot width size? Cholesterol level? Planck’s Constant? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Now I have to fill in something called a ‘change of circumstances form’, which is ridiculous, because the only way my circumstances have changed is that I’ve lost £3 calling some obnoxious helpline.