BANKERS

Back in the mid seventies , I worked briefly for National Westminster Bank . Straight out of school with an ‘A’ level in Economics . All set for a career in high finance.

I joined one of two large branches in Doncaster and saw on an internal memo that I was their “ supernumerary”... which meant they didn’t really know what to do with me.

Accordingly,I quickly gravitated to the position of Agency Clerk which meant three days a week I was sent out with a senior partner to the furthest outposts of the Natwest empire to provide part time banking services where a full time bank was unviable.

My senior partner, Mr Brown , who looked more like a farmer than a banker with his huge hands and stocky frame , saw himself as something of an avenging angel and our thrice weekly trips often included personal visits to people who had overdrawn.

These were the early days of cash dispenser cards and Mr Brown carried a pair of scissors with him to ceremoniously cut up the transgressor’s access to easy money on their own doorstep.

Monday mornings we pitched up in an office otherwise used by a bus company in Rossington , approximately half an hour from our main branch.

The internet is often blamed , these days , for the decline in local and high street shopping , but  back then , people were still buying at home from catalogue companies such as Grattans and Empire Stores. The catalogue orders were consolidated by local agents , all of whom , it seemed to me , lived in Rossington.

My job , between 9.30 and 12.00 consisted, almost entirely, of checking in hundreds of weekly payments to these firms. Occasionally someone who had queued for thirty minutes or more would try to book a day trip to Bridlington , and I would spend many more minutes trying to explain that we were not a bus company on Monday mornings. This never went down well or easily.

Our aim each week was to lock the doors at midday , balance the tills and get off back to Doncaster as quickly as possible. On many occasions , we overran significantly , which made Mr Brown seethe. We would ride silently back to base , always listening to Radio 4.

If “World at One” started before we hit the High Street , I knew there would be trouble.

As we turned the corner close to our destination , Mr Brown would invariably hit the steering wheel hard before bellowing “ Boot full of money … and some bugger in our parking space”.

Twice a week we trundled down to Crowle in Lincolnshire to manage the accounts of the local farming community. Each time we followed a different route there and back to thwart would be hijackers. Winding trails along misty lanes , the car mysteriously speeding up and braking hard many times , in what I assumed to be part of my partner’s avoidance strategy.

Much later , I discovered that what was actually happening was that when Mr Brown saw a pheasant wandering absent mindedly across the misty lanes, he speeded up in the hope of  hitting it. The braking hard , usually accompanied by an expletive , meant he had missed…