The Adventures of a Small Businessman in the Forbidden Zone

Every week she would come into the bank to take out cash for the week. Always on Friday and always at lunchtime, our busiest time of the week.

The cashiers would do anything to avoid having to serve the crazy old trout. Serving slowly or quickly, trying to judge the speed of the queue, feigning an attack of botulism, anything not to have to deal with her.

I recall that this particular day she arrived at Mick`s till. Mick was a new recruit with only a couple of days experience on counter. You could see the experienced staff titter with relief when the nutter went to Mick`s till.

Mick was a textbook example of politeness and efficiency. He gave the lady her cash and wished her a pleasant weekend. She put the money in her purse and turned to leave, but before he could serve the next customer she was back accusing him of shortchanging her. Mick denied it of course but it was no use.

She insisted on seeing a supervisor – me, and I was required to close the till and check the contents while they both watched me. I really did not have the time or the patience to close one of our five tills when we had customers queuing literally out of the doors, but I had no choice. As I said before, when you work for a bank, rules are rules. Resistance is futile.

I was busy counting all the cash and checking it against the receipts issued when‘The-customer-is-always right-even-if-she-happens-to-be-bobbins’ noticed a sticker on the glass screen. It was an ear with a cross over it.

As part of National Year of the Deaf, the banks had agreed to make themselves more users friendly for deaf people. Some banks trained staff in basic sign language, another installed equipment so that deaf people could plug their hearing aids into a socket on the counter. Our bank extravagantly sent each branch a little plastic sticker to put on one counter with the simple instruction “put somebody sympathetic on this till”. No expense spared as usual.

Anyway the lovely but bewildered old lady tapped the sticker with her walking stick (she didn’t need a stick, it was just for effect) and demanded of me;

“Young man. What does this mean, young man?”

I lost my place in a bundle of ten pound notes and had to start counting again. There was more cash in Mick`s till than under a Colombian cocaine dealer’s mattress.

“It is there to show that we are a caring equal opportunities company (unless of course you are black, Asian, Catholic, Jewish, etc), and we give a sympathetic service to those with a hearing disadvantage,” I told her.

She tapped the sticker again with her stick, this time even harder causing both Mick and I to jump. I lost my place again in the bundle of money.

“You mean deaf people?”

“Yes, I mean deaf people.”

“So,” she continued, oblivious to the icy stares of the people stuck behind her in the queue. “Let’s assume that I am deaf and I present my usual cheque for payment. How would you respond?”

I felt the red mist rising but I was unable to resist. I leaned up to the glass and beckoned her closer, our faces inches apart but separated by the glass.

“I would examine the cheque to see how much you wanted,” I said in a reasonable voice. Then I would ask; “HOW DO YOU WANT YOUR MONEY!” This last bit shouted so loudly that blood began to leak from her ears and nose.

The lady stepped back several paces in shock, turned and stormed out of the building, to a round of applause from the long suffering customers in the queue behind her.

“Carry on Mick,” I instructed and returned to my desk.

Less than half an hour later I found myself in Village’s office for a dressing down.

The senile old sod might not have a clue who much was in her purse, or indeed which wrist her watch was on, but she had no trouble at all in remembering my name or getting through to Head Office to complain.

McFier had been given a roasting and he was merely passing it along. Fair is fair after all.

Another time and another old lady. This one was even older than the last one I had a problem with. Not as sprightly on her feet but she was 92 years old after all. Still in full possession of all her pots and pans you might say, and very prim and proper.

She was the last of a very rich ‘old money’ family from the local area and was arguably our richest customer. No excuses, this one was my own entire fault.

It was another Friday afternoon. I was flying off in the morning for two weeks of sun, sea and serious sangria abuse. Yes, Ibiza, with a girlfriend that didn’t like to be touched in case it interfered with her quest for the perfect suntan.

For lunch my colleagues and I had gone to the Haunch of Venison to celebrate and I had partaken of a lovely tuna sandwich and a pint of Guinness. Okay, maybe four. Sandwiches.

Back in the office with just a couple of hours to go and I was demob happy. Then Village came out and lumbered me with his three thirty appointment.

“Mrs …has come into some money. Her sister and only surviving relative has passed away leaving her a tidy sum. She wants some investment advice. You passed your investment exams last month, so it will be good practice for you. You are probably more up to date than me at the moment anyway.” This last bit was probably true but hardly made me unique amongst the other bipeds inhabiting planet earth.

What he meant actually was that he was out of his depth as usual. He spent more time out of his depth than a cross channel swimmer. His suit had inflatable armbands.

Anyway I met the lady in the interview room over a cup of coffee. In retrospect I should have offered her a cup as well, but I had consumed an awful lot of ‘sandwiches’ at lunchtime.

I actually did a very professional job. First we made a full list of her existing investments – it was massive. If she had moved everything offshore she would have started a run on sterling.

Secondly we listed all her expenses and commitments – negligible. She did not need any more money.

Finally I asked her did she have anything in particular she wanted to do with the funds, invest in renewable technology, set up a trust for friends that sort of thing.

At the end of all this it was quite clear that she did not need the windfall, she had no family or friends that she planned to leave anything to, no charity she wished to support. When she died the Government would probably get the lot.

“So,what do you think I should do with the money?” the lady asked.

“Honestly,” I said, “Spend it.”

“Spend it?” She sounded puzzled.

“Yes, spend it. Live a little. Splash out on some of the finer things in life and just enjoy it. Take a round the world cruise, first class. Get yourself a toyboy! Tell you what, we are going to Ibiza in the morning, come with us!” I joked. My girlfriend would have gone ape shit if the old dear had turned up at the airport.

“Seriously,” I told her, “You already have all the investments we could recommend. All you could do is buy more of them. Why not use the money to make yourself happy?”

“I will think about what you have said and act accordingly,” she said. Then she rose slowly from the table, thanked me politely for my time and left.

I had a nice two-week holiday and returned to find out just how much she had appreciated my candid advice. This time I wasn’t even summoned into the office for a dressing down. Village just left the written warning from Head Office in the middle of my desk.

I still maintain it was good advice…

Every six months we would get an appraisal on our performance. It was supposed to be a private and frank discussion between the manager and the member of staff. The manager would tell me how he judged my performance, in this case not happy and not impressed. I then had a chance to tell him how I felt, in this case less happy and much less impressed. He was then supposed to tell me his plans for my further training and I would have the opportunity to request certain training courses that I felt might be beneficial.

At the end of the appraisal everything that had been said and agreed upon would be written down, signed by both parties and sent to Head Office for review.

It was early December and McFier and I had just had a particularly unhelpful discussion. The only thing we agreed upon was that he wanted rid of me and I wanted to go. We both signed the appraisal, sealed it in an internal mail envelope and left it for posting.

Imagine my surprise when Jane the office typist whispered in my ear that McFier had taken the envelope back into his office and replaced it later when he thought no one was watching. What was he up to, I wondered?

So on my way to the staff room at lunchtime I lifted the envelope and took it somewhere private to see what he had done. The sneaky bastard had stapled a hand written note to the front of the appraisal.

It contained several accusations:

Firstly it claimed I was a total drunk, always in the pub. He knew because he passed my house most evenings on his way home from his snooker club and I was never home. Quite correct. I was always at martial arts classes.

Secondly he suspected that I was having sex with most of the staff, he didn’t distinguish between the males and females, and this could be a serious security threat (You need two sets of keys to access any place in the bank holding cash). He had reports that members of staff were seen regularly leaving my home on Sunday mornings having obviously spent the night. This was partially correct. Lots of staff used my place for free overnight accommodation. They lived in rural villages so if we had a night out on the town they would stay over to save on taxi fares. I slept on my own in my own bed.