Tales from a rural bank
‘Lady Whore!’ Barry, the junior clerk, tripped over his ego, flinging aside his dignity, pride and twisting his specs.
‘It’s Who Ray, Lady Who, Ray,’ she said in the fake accent that matched her brassy tan.
‘Apologies, me lady.’ Barry was usual deferential self.
The Whore flicked her blonde hair extensions in his face and fluttered her false eyelashes. Smiling, like the fool he is, Barry sat her down in the nearest chair, once again spilling the orderly piles of coins that had taken me hours to sort out all over the walnut desk.
Shoot
I wanted to shoot Barry, then, dismember the Whore, but in this part of the country, animals have rights, even in banks. So, I sit down quietly, and recount the morning deposits. The constant interruption of brash laughing and flirting at their table turns my stomach. I make a mental note to reprimand Barry later.
Catherine Whore, with her spray on clothes, that are so tight, you can could see her knickerline, (if she were wearing any), so low that you can almost see the surgeons stitch from the implants and a skirt so short, that it could pass for a curtain valance in my living room, is no lady.
But Lady Whore, Who Ray, or whatever she calls herself, has the title because she’s married to the very old, sick, but extremely wealthy Baron James Worthington-Ray. He’s old money. Owns half the land in the county.
No children, no living relatives. Then along comes the dirty little spider, with her gaudy clothes, sassy Essex accent, bad attitude and a mountain of chewing gum and traps the tender little fly.
Deposit
She made a deposit yesterday. All in fifties and tens (pence). You can always tell those with breeding, they bank in the morning. The money’s neatly packaged in a cloth-banking bag and it’s always accurate. Those with breeding, or’ broughtupsy’ (as my late uncle called it) exchange quiet and polite small talk and leave quickly and silently.
She arrives with some kind of disgusting tiny dog in her overpriced, oversized bag and hands Barry a three plastic bags full of coins, without the necessary paperwork. Laughs loud, swears and lets her little bitch run around my clean bank.
I made him count it twice. Just to make sure that it was all there. Her kind, always try to get something for nothing. He made it 2K. But when I counted it later, it was £1959.50. I’d be damned if I was going to put any of my hard-earned money to that Tramp, in order to balance the books.
So, I cut off Barry’s nose by deducting the £40.50 from his salary. Teach him to focus on his job and not the Whore’s breasts.
- Read Millicent’s opinionated and snobbish diatribes on Elderjuice and sign-up to be kept up-to-date with future instalments.
Know Baron James well. I’m not surprised he married that doxie – I was forever having to pull his chestnuts out of the proverbial when we were younger!
Bankers aint wot they used to be.
When I opened my first bank account at the age of 15 my Dad made me put my school uniform on, including cap, and marched me up to meet the Bank Manager, a man of prudence and wise counsel, who personally oversaw the whole process. The rules of the game were explained to me, along the lines of, “do not be overdrawn, I shall be watching”. We appear not to have Bank managers now, just “Account Executives” who are continually trying to to sell you other ‘products’ or upgrade your current account. On principle I have resolutley refused to answer the siren’s call and have maintained my very first account. I am probably the only person in the country still with this kind of current account. My question is, “Why can’t they just give me the same deal without me having to ‘upgrade’.
Bankers; pah!