I went to the bank to pay in some dough; trying to fend off the red – a futile exercise. I was with my pal who works in Moorgate – he possesses an intense stare and a bulky padded jacket.
The door to the bank wouldn’t open and a cashier operated it from the inside explaining the automatic doors were faulty in cold weather. I asked him: “how do the banks manage in Iceland apart from putting bankers in jail”.
The connection a little obtuse but having the desired effect – all the ingratiating false bonhomie vanishing like the ‘Third Man’ down a post WWII Viennese sewer.
I persisted in my questioning, as there were three tellers in position behind the counter to the two of us. The now standing door opener with a public service, rictus smile got both barrels of “…it’s not a difficult question to answer” He mumbled some response like he “didn’t know” while a sitting colleague tried an aggressive stare from his monitor. The woman dealing me really took her time… all very predictable.
I realise I’m getting extreme – I’m getting angrier – as I get older. These poor bastards doing their jobs are probably the life and soul of the party in their dreams but in reality have the personality and banter of a Frozen Charlotte. Not a fucking poet amongst them.
I know my expectations of people are sometimes unrealistic. I know I’m flawed but I know I’m alive.