Dateline: Tirana, 5th November 2026.
I couldn’t resist having some fun with the delegates at the 8th International Conference of Regional Card Schemes and Retail Financial Market Infrastructure in Tirana, so I used Paddington bear to make a point. It turns out that the international audience all knew who Paddington bear was, but many of them didn’t know where he was from. Read on, and you’ll see why this is of interest to me.
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. Let’s start the process with 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 ID?”
“Of course,” Paddington said brightly, “Peru is a developed economy.”
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?”.
“My digital 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 into a back room to call the AI-powered quantum-resistant AML hotline in the cloud. He explained the situation.
“A digital what?”, came the baffled response. “There’s no such thing. He might be a deep undercover sleeper member of the Maoist Shining Path guerrilla movement hoping to engage in money laundering, terrorist financing and, I would 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 digital credentials.”
Paddington looked down, wondering how he was ever going to get his marmalade.
“But” Paddington said as he looked up from his smartphone brightly, “the Anti-Money Laundering Authority (AMLA) draft Regulatory Technical Standard says that banks can use electronic identification solutions for Customer Due Diligence (CDD).”
The clerk was unmoved. “We cannot answer for what our cousins on the continent are doing, Sir.”
The clerk turned to move away. He had paperwork to be getting on with.
“Wait!” Paddington exclaimed. He remembered that he’d forgotten to take his passport out of his backpack after landing at the airport last time.
The clerk was still not satisfied and quite understandably. A passport does not prove an address. And anyway, how was the clerk supposed to be able to tell a real Peruvian passport from one bought on the internet by a Maoist guerrilla intent on bring havoc to our institutions?
The clerk saw how downcast Paddington looked and tried to explain. “You understand we have to check these things, sir. You might be anyone! How do we know if you are a mercenary warlord or not?” (See note 1)
He questioned the small bear further. “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 sorry sir. Your passport is not good enough. I’m afraid without proof of address in the form of a recent utility bill or another document we actually recognise”. (See note 2)
He finished and turned away saying “I’m sorry, we cannot open an account for you.”
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 me a gas bill with my name on it on your computer”?
“Oh, Paddington”, said Mr. Brown. “I understand how backwards we must seem to a Peruvian. Only today in the Financial Times I read about about a chap of 68 years of age who has lived at the same address for more than thirty years and reckons that he is asked more than once a month on average to go through such a process, providing utility bills and so on.”
He paused, sighing about the state of the nation.
“Leave it to me Paddington, I’ll just change one of my gas bills so it has your name on it.” (See note 3)
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. Please send all of my royalties to 0xdAC17F958D2ee523a2206206994597C13D831ec7”. (See note 4)
Historical accuracy: the noted Russian warlord Yevgeny Prigozhin passed his London AML checks with his mother’s gas bill from St. Petersburg.
While I was writing this, one of my financial services apps asked me to provide proof of address after activating a card that had been sent to me by post. I’m going to send them back a PDF of the letter they posted to me.
I remember being told by a senior person in a bank that they had asked someone in the IT department to do this for them in order to be able to open an account with their own employer because they had moved house before taking up a new role.
No bears were harmed during the writing of this blog post.