Sime says

I don't have a head for numbers, so walking into my local bank branch sends me into a cold sweat. You'd think that after stepping foot into this particular money pit for more than 45 years, that the tellers would tell everyone about my arrival, the manager might hand me gold ingots and interest rates would climb in expectation. Not so, for in 2018 this is one antsy place to be in. Just the other day, fed up with waiting and with an obvious want to attract attention, the fellow behind me in the queue exhaled in a fashion not too dissimilar to the way an elephant seal snorts hot fish breath into the air.  With the odour wafting over my shoulder I shuffled forward but was blocked by Mavis who had just strolled in, with her passbook, and taken up poll position in front of me. Up ahead at the money end of the queue, the manger – whilst on the phone to bank central – gave directives to the customer in front of him. Stymied at every angle, the customer left shaking his hea...