Pulling at his earlobe the ageing bank manager considered the frontage of his bank. Standing squarely, proudly and immovable in the very heart of the town. Deep coloured bricks, an impressive and solid building, the sense that it had always been there, would always be there, was palpable. Something, however, was not quite right. A splash of colour met his affronted eyes and he hurried to open up.
Seated now, in his office, he worried and thought. Miss Perkins had arrived and was called into the inner sanctum. Standing (never, ever to sit in this room) she listened intently to his concerns. She understood, and sympathised, but of course this was outside of her purview.
Naturally the manager agreed, was slightly perturbed in fact, that she may think that he wanted her to deal with it personally. No, no, they must consider who it was they must notify. Miss Perkins felt certain it was a job for the Town Council, which in truth it probably was.
This caused all manner of confusion, however. Obviously it was not possible for the manager to take the word of Miss Perkins, he must overrule her. Certain protocls had to be observed. Secondly his extremely complex relationship with the Council clouded the issue. He felt his long held burning desire to become, one day, mayor of this small settlement was well hidden, concealed. It was not. Would a complaint, at this time, be seen as an attack, his being awkward and attempting a Machiavellian approach to his ambitions? Or would tackling the problem himself be seen as over-riding the Council’s responsibilities. Tricky, very tricky indeed. He mused this problem the whole day, to the exclusion of all other business. Loans, overdrafts and repayment schedules were all put to one side whilst he tried to figure out his next move.
Meanwhile the tiny weed continued to grow in a crack at the base of the step of his Bank.
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