The Adventures of a Small Businessman in the Forbidden Zone. Anna Tomkins

the desperado showed his friend what appeared to be a sawn off shotgun under the bar table.

      The police spoke to us all before we opened the doors to the public. “Be extra vigilant Ladies and Gentlemen. Keep as little cash as possible on the counter. We have no idea which bank the criminal mastermind intends to strike at. If the man points a gun at you do as he says and give him everything he wants. Remember the bank is insured and we don’t want any dead heroes.”

      If he points a gun at you do as he says? Are you fucking joking? If he points a shotgun at me Ill make sure he doesn’t leave without the manager’s wallet and car keys as well. Be a hero? For these wankers? I don’t think so sunshine.

      This was the day that I discovered a little known fact about the bulletproof glass counter screens that separate the staff from the customers. It isn’t bulletproof. It isn’t even very thick. Bulletproof glass is apparently too expensive to waste money on protecting staff from shotgun wielding desperados.

      So my long held suspicions are confirmed. The counter screens exist only to make normal conversation between customer and cashier all but impossible.

      Which brings me to the next question. Why they are there for fucks sake? I’m afraid I have no adequate explanation.

      Anyway back to the tale. The day of the raid passed without incident as far as we were concerned. We all went home for the weekend none the wiser that the desperado had indeed attempted his robbery.

      Next week we heard on the grapevine that he had attempted to hold up a small sub-branch down by the docks. Why? I honestly can’t say. The place only had three staff and was just open a couple of hours a day. If he had stolen every penny in the place he would still have had to borrow money from his mum to pay for a plane ticket to Ibiza. It must have been handy for the drug clinic where he collected his free needles or something.

      Allegedly he walked into the sub-branch wearing a pair of women’s tights lopsidedly over his head, menacingly waving the sawn off shotgun at the one and only elderly lady cashier. He stuck a plastic shopping bag into the cash slot and screamed at the elderly cashier “Fill her up Bitch!!!!”

      The cashier was frozen stiff with fear at the sight of the weapon. The other problem was that the tights muffled the gangster’s voice. What with that and the effect of the glass screen between them, she had no idea what he wanted. So she just sat there looking terrified.

      So he reiterated his request a bit louder “I said fill her up bitch!!!” Then to make his point more forcefully Interpol’s most wanted fugitive aimed the gun skywards and let off both barrels.

      Minutes later, mildly concussed by a collapsed false ceiling and covered in concrete dust, he was seen making his getaway on a racing bicycle headed back towards town, the sawn off shotgun dangling from the handlebars in the otherwise empty shopping bag. Would that all bank robbers were so efficient.

      That is not the stupid part of the tale. No, the stupid part of the tale is that despite the fact that the robber had an amoeba sized IQ and his getaway vehicle was a second hand bicycle, the police didn’t catch him. Scary Huh?

      After two years I had finished the accelerated training course. More than half the people that had joined at the same time I did had already left the bank to do something else less stressful. Like mediating between the Israelis and the PLO. Now it was the bank’s usual practice to move on the remaining graduate trainees to a new branch to give them more experience.

      I had made many good friends amongst the staff in Hull and was sorry to leave them, but I was looking forward to a fresh start with a new boss. Preferably one that didn’t consider Ian Paisley to be some kind of Papist sympathizer, and wouldn’t give me ‘C’ grade appraisals just because he didn’t like people with a University education. Out of the frying pan…as the saying goes.

      The bank transferred me south to Warwickshire, to a recently opened branch. It had been open for three years and in that time had descended onto total chaos. Even though I had only been in the bank for two years myself, I was one of the most experienced staff members we had. In a bank you don’t go home until the books have balanced. The books never balanced first time due to a combination of staff inexperience and overwork – we just didn’t have the staff to cope with the massive influx of new business.

      So often we didn’t leave for home until after nine at night. One New Years Eve we didn’t get out until 10.30 PM. My overtime payments were usually more than my regular salary, and the overtime was compulsory.

      On the plus side my co-workers were good fun and we would go out together as a group at weekends, often they would stay over at my house because I lived only walking distance from the town center.

      On the negative side there was the manager, Mr. McFier.

      The new manager was a disaster. At least the old one knew his job; this man was the most inept individual I have ever come across bar none. The new boss disliked me intensely and I can tell you the feeling was entirely mutual. I can honestly say found him inspirational in many ways. For instance it was comforting to discover that being completely bloody hopeless at your job need not be a barrier to progress in your chosen career. Especially if you managed to gain membership of the Lodge of course.

      We used to play a game there called ‘Identify today’s breakfast’. Invariably McFier would arrive for work with his tie covered in egg or beans, or toast crumbs, or fried banana, or God knows what. The staff would take bets on what the stain was, and the typist would then ask the man in a roundabout way, what his wife had cooked for him this morning. McFier was a difficult gentleman to respect. I didn’t respect him at all.

      I remember we had an ‘office snitch’, a creep called Colin. Anytime anybody screwed up, Colin would have a discreet word with the ‘Village Idiot’, or Village as he was affectionately known, and the offender would be summoned to the manager’s office for a dressing down and a reminder of the importance of attention to detail. This from a man that could not successfully get all his breakfast into his mouth two days running. Village made more screw ups per day than George W. Bush in a term of office.

      The only way I could get through Village’s inane ranting was by imagining the lanky halfwit sat opposite dressed only in women’s underwear.

      So while he was admonishing me, I would be sat there imagining him dressed in a basque and G-string, an image that made me smirk involuntarily. Village would notice the smirk and it drove him berserk.

      One time he apparently confided to Colin, “He just sits there smirking. Never apologizes. In my army days it was called dumb insolence and he would have ended up in the stockade. I tell you Colin next time I will hit the bugger.”

      Colin saved his life. “I would advice against it Sir. Sean trains in kickboxing twice a week and karate twice a week. Most weekends he fights on the amateur tournament circuit. I have heard him say in the staff room that if you are not careful, one day he will snap and put your head so far up your arse that you will need a toothbrush with a two foot handle to reach your teeth. He would do it Sir. The man has no respect.”

      Colin repeated the conversation to me as soon as he could. He was fair like that Colin; he would snitch on anybody. Colin just liked snitching.

      After that Village treated me with kid gloves. He got his own back by consistently giving me lousy appraisals.

      There were very few memorable days working at this place. Mostly it was just the same old grind and long hours, living for the weekends. It was here that I developed the psychosis that came to be known as PMT or Pre Monday Tension. It was a wave of nausea and despair experienced at about teatime on Sundays as you realized that the weekend was nearly over. Luckily there was an herbal remedy readily available – four pints of draught Guinness usually did the trick.

      I did however get myself involved in a couple of classic incidents. Both times I could not help myself, my warped sense of humour would not let me miss the opportunity. Both times earned me a reprimand from Head Office.

      You know when old people get like, borderline senile dementia? They forget where they put stuff but are convinced that somebody is stealing from them. Usually they blame the poor bugger