Paddington Bear stood on the shiny marble floor of the Big Bank, clutching a large, slightly sticky envelope in his paw. Outside, the red double-decker buses trundled past, but inside, the air smelled strongly of floor polish and caution.
“Good morning,” said Paddington, tipping his red hat politely. “I have come to deposit a royalty check. My Aunt Lucy says one must always keep one’s marmalade pennies in a safe place.”
The clerk, a very neat chap with a sharp-looking tie, looked down over his spectacles. “Certainly, sir. We will just need to verify your identity and proof of address. Do you have a recent household utility bill?”
Paddington blinked. “A utility bill? Oh dear”. But then he remembered! “I do have a gas bill. It arrived this morning.”
He reached deep into his suitcase and carefully produced a piece of paper. Unfortunately, it bore the unmistakable, sticky golden fingerprints of an emergency marmalade sandwich he had eaten on the Tube. The address was completely obscured beneath a thick layer of citrus preserve.
The clerk frowned, stepping back slightly. “Ah. That appears to be… heavily fruited, Mr. Brown—er, Bear. We cannot accept a document covered in breakfast preserves. Do you have a government-issued photo ID?”
“Of course,” Paddington said brightly.
He pulled a shiny smartphone from his coat pocket and tapped the screen with a furry paw. “My Peruvian Digital ID. It uses the official framework managed by RENIEC, complete with cryptographic security safeguards and a temporary dynamic QR code to prevent unauthorized screenshots.”
The clerk leaned over the counter, squinting at the glowing screen. He tilted his head to the left, then to the right, looking entirely bewildered.”I’m sorry,” the clerk said, blinking slowly. “A digital what?”.
“A digitial identity” said Paddington.
The clerk was sceptical “I’ve never heard of a digital identity in my life. Is it some sort of photograph? “”
“Oh, no, it’s linked directly to the national registry in Lima,” Paddington explained helpfully, holding the phone closer. “It has my biometric authentication and everything.”
The clerk took a deep breath, rubbing his temples. His supervisor will laugh at him if he starts talking about “digital identities”.
“Please wait a moment Sir”, the clerk said, and then went to back room to call the AML hotline. He explained the situation. “A digital what?”, came the baffled response. There’s no such thing. He is clearly a member of the Marxist Shining Path guerilla movement hoping to engage in money laundering, terrorsit financing and, I wouldn’t not be surprised to hear, political corruption. No account, no way”.
The clerk returned.
“Sir, we are a bank. We don’t know anything about so-called verifiable credentials. Do you happen to have a UK photocard driving licence?” Paddington looked deeply alarmed. “A driving licence? Oh, goodness me, no. If I were to drive a car, the city would be in terrible trouble. I can barely manage a shopping trolley when the wheels stick to the left.”
Sighing heavily, the clerk slid the sticky gas bill back across the counter. “I’m afraid without a standard utility bill or a document we actually recognize, we cannot open an account today.”
Paddington slumped his shoulders. “This is a very sticky situation,” he muttered.Suddenly, his eyes lit up. He remembered Mrs. Brown’s emergency smartphone instructions. Stepping out of the queue, he called Mr. Brown
“Mr. Brown!” Paddington whispered urgently into the phone. “The bank requires proof of a proper address, but my gas bill has met with an unfortunate accident involving a jar of extra-chunky, and they have never even heard of a digital identity like we use back in Peru! Can you make make a gas bill with my name on it on your computer”?
Twenty minutes later, a breathless Mr. Brown rushed into the lobby, waving Paddington’s gas bill. Paddington was finally able to pay his cheque into a bank account and it would only be three days before he could use the money for marmalade.
Paddington called his publisher. “I say Mr Harper, could you tell Mr. Collins that I want Tether only from now. Send the royalties to 0xdAC17F958D2ee523a2206206994597C13D831ec7″.
Notes
Historical accuracy: the noted Russian warlord Yevgeny Prigozhin passed his London AML checks with his mother’s gas bill from St. Petersburg.
No bears were harmed during the writing of this blog post.