The Infinite Bag of Crisps

I handed in my notice, in black biro on white A4, I filled it up with sorries and words like abrupt, understand and accept. It was well-received and I was congratulated by everybody in the company and they let me have the day off and gave me a crate of broccoli and a fairtrade air-horn to toot whenever I'm delighted.
I feared the notice-handing-in would be more uproarious and huffmaking as I haven't even been there long enough to know for sure off the top of my head whether or not we sell crunchy peanut butter. Someone asked for it and I said maybe and took them to the gap next to the honey, pointed at it and said well we definitely have space for it to develop, and they said but I can't spread that on my fucking toast can I, and I said your lack of self-belief is not welcome in this shop.

Bare Minimums

If you're reading this, thanks for reading this.

There is no news except that Sting has a cottage round here and his favourite hobby is to drive round in a small old car pretending not to be Sting. This is a fact so true that people are bored of talking about it. Unlike the cold and miserable future.

If I was to make something up out of slices of things I've made up that didn't make it anywhere it would look like this and be called some sentences taken out of context are a lot better than the things from which they've been removed.

The sand was havoc in our foldy bits.
The sun had arrived and was beginning to claw people's faces off.
I told her about what I would need to tell her about if I was employed to be doing the job I was pretending to be doing.
Oxgoctional bumbunctions.
The sun was throttling people with its nuclear hands.
I burst into the shop and composed myself.

How Can We Help?

In order to continue improving our service we want to know what Helpful Banking means to our customers.

* Tell us about any instances where we've been particularly helpful.
* Have there been any instances where we could have been more helpful?
* We're constantly looking for new ways to help our customers.
What could we do to help you?

You could help me by making sure the branch opening times listed on your website are exactly the branch opening times in real life.
I went to the Ambleside branch today, to deposit some cash in the account of a friend, Mr Dan Bown. That's Bown, Brown without an r. He didn't write the Da Vinci Code and is sick of people mentioning it.
If he had've written the Da Vinci code, he wouldn't need me to put any money in his account.
It was 3.55 p.m.
I was strolling.
"The bank closes at half four," I thought.
"I have loads of time. It's not very far away."
There was a fine drizzle in the air and some small dogs in the park.
I'd just finished work.
I wasn't too cold or too hot.
I wasn't hungry or angry or in a rush.
I withdrew a hundred and twenty pounds from one of those "cash machines".
I thought: "After I have put a hundred and ten pounds in Dan's account, I will purchase a can of ginger beer, open it, and pour its contents into my face. This will be lovely and marvellous."
But I didn't do that.
Because when I arrived at the Nat West, Ambleside, the door was shut.
It was in such a state of shutness that at first I didn't think it was a door. I thought it was a bit of the wall with a lock on it.
Shocked to my very balls, I searched the area for a way in.
The only one that presented itself was the window. I would need to glue a diamond helmet to my head, take a very big run up across a busy road, and launch myself helmet-first at the glass, cash in one hand, printout of opening times-as-stated-on-the-website in the other.
But where was I going to find a diamond helmet at that time, in that town, and for a tenner?
All my tears came out at once and left a puddle of sorrow on the pavement.
Naturally, passers-by assumed I had done an accident with my nether-parts, and gave me a wide berth, as they say, in some cases even turning around and walking in the opposite direction, muttering and flabbergasted.
Imagine this in detail, please, for it is one of those instances in which you could have been more helpful.
It's not your fault, of course. It's a communication breakdown, isn't it. Someone hasn't bothered to check, or someone else hasn't bothered to inform someone else.
Possibly they are getting round to it this week, but don't think it's of maximal priority.
It's not going to hurt anyone.
But what about your customer Mr Bown?
Now he's sitting at home, in London, muttering and disgusted.
Disgusted at me, his friend, because I haven't done what I said I was going to do.
In effect, your website has turned me into a cack-hearted monster of betrayal.
And Dan can't afford any of those things he thought he would be able to afford today.
I don't know what those things are, but I'm sure he would rather be having them right now, than right now not having them.
So I'll return to the Nat West, Ambleside, tomorrow morning, and put the money in his account then.
But could you tell me what time you actually open? Because I don't want to start weeping on the pavement again.

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I'm glad I have a job and that shops still provide employment opportunities. Unlike in the future or the Japan I've never been to where shops are massive vending machines powered by robot juice and greed that never close or run out of anything.
We are being elbowed in this direction by the new brilliant ideas, which require fewer workers to do more work in less time. Competence is now laziness and being amazing the bare minimum. The till administers electric shocks based on unknown measurements. And they've put up pictures of the robot arms that we're keeping out of employment. And the ones that haven't clenched their fists have all got their middle fingers raised. It's a bit much.

Juvenile Dementia

The taxman wrote. We’d lost touch. I miss him. We’ve never been very close, but now he’s showering me with numbers. I’m not sure what he wants exactly but I’m not turning anything down. He’s full of remorse. I can tell by the lack of apologies. When he says calculations he means errors. When he says within fourteen days he means sooner than never. Maybe he’s joined a religion that requires him to make amends for everything he’s ever done.