18-year-old me had an account with the Halifax, then a building society. One week, £50 appeared in this account. I knew it wasn't for me, and didn't want to spend it as I knew I'd have to give it back at some point. (I'd asked my girlfriend's dad, a lawyer who worked for the Crown Prosecution Service, if I could just keep it. He compared it to someone parking their car on my driveway. They shouldn't leave it there, but that doesn't mean it becomes my car.)
I wrote – on paper, in an envelope – to the Halifax. They said they'd do something about it. They didn't, and a month later another fifty quid arrives. This went on for a few months, from memory. When they finally sorted it, I pointed out that another bank (HSBC?) was, at the time, offering a £25 'sorry, we screwed up' payment. I suggested that they might like to send me £25.
The manager wrote back and told me that as 'no inconvenience or cost was incurred by me' as a result of this error, he didn't see why he should give me £25. Looking back, this event shaped how I feel about corporations, about how the 'little guy' is treated. I was fucking furious, so I meticulously detailed all of the costs, including my time at the minimum wage of the day, and put them in a letter. I mean down to the cost of the envelopes, the stamps, and the landline calls that I'd made. Everything, itemised. It was beautiful.
I called and got the manager on the phone. I explained my stance, and read through each line of the letter I was about to send. "Do you agree that this was a cost incurred by me?", I asked after every line. He couldn't disagree. I think the total was somewhere around £60. I finished the call by saying that he'd be getting this detail in the mail, and that it wasn't a letter this time, it was an invoice. Then – oh man, I remember this – I just hung up on him.
They sent me a cheque.