Fed up with life on hold? Just call Trevor Having taken the familiar steps to verify my identity - birth date, mother's maiden name, inside leg measurement, full DNA analysis - it emerged that the electronic fag payment, so often made before without intriguing Interpol, had activated a "random fraud check." On being transferred to the fraud department, the recorded message mentioned that, due to the usual "unusually high volume of calls," it would take five minutes. Five minutes later, it would be another five minutes, and so on. It is at times like this that the inspiring reminder, reiterated every 90 seconds, that "your call is important to us" means so much. Finally, after 20 minutes, a male voice spoke. He claimed to be in Gloucester, though the line suggested a ship-to-shore call made during a force nine mid-Atlantic gale to a Zambian village in 1953. Inevitably he was unable to call me back, so, yelling insanely, we went through the security questions merriment again. After a bracing 32 minutes and 37 seconds, the matter was resolved. I took my blood pressure, and neither the systolic nor diastolic readings were good. For all the consoling irony that the embryonic health kick had almost led to a stroke, I came over all Peter Finch in Network. Mad as hell and not prepared to take it any more, I rang the TSB press office to ask after compensation for both the cost of the call and the ruinous waste of my time. The enquiry was delegated, and soon enough Trevor called. This engaging Brummie handles media complaints, but what he had to say may interest all who bank, knowingly or otherwise, with TSB. Inconveniencing customers to this degree is unacceptable, agreed Trevor, so he was offering a current account credit of 35p per minute for the call, and an extra £25 for my time. That was fine, I said, so long as this applies to every tormented customer, not just the truculent columnist. Trevor assured me that it does. After dismissing the suggestion that the "random security check" is a racket to profiteer from mobile calls, Trevor confessed that the split from Lloyds has been difficult. So it has. My parents have had all sorts of troubles with their transferred accounts, and my mother will be visiting her branch shortly to discuss them with the manager. Anyone who has met my mother will join me in begging God to have mercy on his soul. We then enjoyed a poignant reverie, Trevor and I, about the good old days when all the branch staff knew your name, and were always glad you came, and when some friendly voice would resolve the alleged suspicion of fraud in two minutes by ringing you. Trevor's dream is that TSB will raise its service to those quaintly personalised standards of yore. Now, you also asked if your branch manager could call you to apologise. Unfortunately..." he went on, strangling that utopian vision in the womb. No, no, that was a purely satirical request, I said, like asking the White House switchboard to get President Obama to ring about his nuclear discussions with Tehran. Even so, when we bade farewell, I reassured Trevor that his call had been important to me. I hope it may also be useful to some of you. Any TSB customer who experiences such poor service is advised to avoid the 0845 number in favour of the press office (the number can be found online). Tell them I have seconded you to a Telegraph investigation into banking practice, and that you want to talk with Trevor about compensation. If enough of you collect about £40, the bank may find it cheaper to hire enough staff than to continue modelling its call centres on the Marie Celeste. The real banking revolution, dear readers, starts here. Give "em hell.