The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 2011 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“So it’s life in the fast lane for you then?” said Pippa as we munched our salads at the university cafeteria.

I shrugged. “You’d have thought Simon would have had more sympathy with my situation, he knows how busy I am.”

“Why, what did he say?”

“He just said, ‘Do you realise what an honour and privilege it is to be asked to become a director of the oldest bank in Britain?’”

“What? It’s older than Barclays an’ the rest of ’em?”

“Apparently, but as a merchant bank up in Scotland. It survived and prospered mainly in Edinburgh for nearly a hundred years before it came south to London, where it set up its first English counting house. It stayed small, but elegantly wealthy.”

“Elegantly wealthy? Wossat mean?”

“God knows, but that’s how they described it, a depository for the more genteel client, or some other similar nonsense. But it worked. They had too many assets to be scooped up by one of the other banks so stayed aloof from much of the various troubles including the great depression, and stayed the same until Henry steered the board into buying up Commercial and Commonwealth and rebranding it as High St. It hasn’t looked back apparently and is the third biggest of the clearing banks.”

“An’ you’re a director?”

“Apparently so.”

“Can’t you claim you were tricked into it?”

“It would be my word against Henry’s, and his is worth more than mine. Besides, it would do nobody any good to make an issue of it.”

“So, we’re gonna lose you?”

I shrugged, “They negotiated with the university before they asked me, they agreed they could release me for four days per month.”

“You’re gonna, like run a department in a bank in four days a month?”

“That’s forty eight a year.”

“What’s the pay like?”

“A hundred.”

“What per day? That’s pretty stingy for a bank, isn’t it?”

“Thousand.”

“Hang on, a thousand a day–not bad rates–I’ll do it for that,” she joked.

“A hundred thousand.”

She froze her fork half way to her mouth. “That’s two thousand a day.”

“Plus bonuses.”

“What d’you have to do for those murder the opposition?”

“No, presumably sell our green credentials, and use it to improve marketing while trying as well to make economies in use of carbon fuels and so on.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“One idea I have is to quantify the size of the carbon footprint and plant an equal number of trees–mostly broadleaf but also some quick growers to harvest for paper.”

“You’re not going to make your own paper?”

“No but we could sell the paper mills the wood to make it, and of course recycling every scrap of it–paper that is.”

“What old cheques and statements?”

“Yes, I plan a collection service to a central point where every piece of paper is shredded beyond recovery and then used to make pulp.”

“What for paper?”

“Yes, what else?”

“Well with you around, who knows?”

“I’m not sure if that was a compliment or what?”

“It was an orwot.”

“Gee thanks. Mind you, depending upon how much there would be, we could possibly turn it into fuel for stoves to heat the branches.”

“Would they allow that?”

“Doubt it–just brain storming.”

“Or you could make papier má¢ché things like they use in hospitals.”

“Could do, I suppose.”

“If you do, do I get a bonus?” asked Pippa.

“Yeah, a cream bun on my birthday.”

“Sure you can afford it?”

“Dunno, will depend on the price of cream buns.”

“Will you still be the bank’s ecology adviser?”

“I don’t know–didn’t ask that?”

“So will you get paid for that as well?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh well, moneybags, you can pay for the teas.”

Back in my office I sat trying to concentrate on my paper for the conference but I just kept on thinking of what other people would say or feel about me–it wasn’t very positive. They’re all going to think I sold out for the money. Typical champagne socialist–criticise the rich until they let me join. Except it wasn’t true–I didn’t ask for the job and only Simon’s pleading with me stopped me resigning before I’d taken up my position. He said that Henry would be really upset if I didn’t at least try to do it. He couldn’t seem to understand that I wasn’t too pleased the way that Henry conned me into doing it.

“He knew if he’d asked you openly, you’d have said no.”

“Absolutely,” I replied.

“So he decided to inveigle you in the hope that once in, you’d see how much good you could do.”

“Simon, it’s a bank not a charity.”

“We give away a surprising amount to charity.”

“Like my wood?”

“Um–partly, but we also donate to charities and advise them on investments, run their accounts for nothing and so on.”

I wasn’t convinced–banks are there to make money. They’re quite good at it, but they can never seem to do so consistently, hence the crashes every so many years. The exception being Cameron’s Bank or High St, which didn’t get as badly hit as Lloyds and RBS or even Barclays, because they didn’t buy bad debts from morally questionable banks in the US. They did however, get it wrong with Simon’s purchase of the bank in Kansas–not the one Dorothy had an account with or Toto–even though he did redeem his position and show he was the victim of a fraud–a large fraud. He even managed to recover some of the money. However, it was a bad call and he made it and was these days doing his penance in the retail arm of the bank–the actual eponymous ones on the high street. I never thought I’d end up working in a bank, even as chief dormouse adviser.

A throwaway remark I made a while ago has come home to haunt me. I playfully suggested that instead of a coat of arms on their logo, they should have a dormouse. My department or directorate as I should describe it, has a dormouse climbing over the coat of arms and the motto, ‘Protecting what we hold dear,’ corny or what?

I asked them to save postage stamps on incoming mail to be given to charity–looks like I’ll end up with charitable work under my direction if I don’t keep quiet. I only suggested it because we do it at the uni–okay, it was my suggestion, but we handed over a sack of stamps to them which they sold for thousands of pounds. Philatelists apparently like them–although they were complaining that the Royal Mail does too many commemoratives. Dunno, don’t collect them–far too exciting for a couch potato like me–I’ll stick to cycling for my kicks–if ever I have time to ride a bike again before I retire.

I looked at the business cards Simon had given me last night: ‘Dr Catherine Watts, PhD, MSc, BSc. Director of Environmental Affairs.’ It gave my office address in Canary Wharf and a phone number, together with a fax number and an email address. I was going to have to be careful or I’d never get clear of this establishment of unbridled capitalism–mind you, a cottage or villa in the South of France would seem a decent reward for a few years work playing with other people’s money. Maybe I will think about it rather than act rashly.