Cash for the loveable chubbie
I am standing around in this financial mausoleum where the morticians wear frock coats, when I hear voices raised and a mahogany door slams open and out bursts this redhead, yelling: Any more of this expletive deleted from you and I'll take my overdraft elsewhere.
Now I can see why Bob Alexander asks me to look in here, apparently this is the home of the NatWest's up market brandname, you might figure it offers taxidermy as a sideline but Bob says the clients find the atmosphere soothing, it lends money to royalty and gentry since time immemorial and sometimes gets repaid.
Bob is persuasive, he takes me aside at this banking reception to say farewell to Mr Sayonara or some such and asks if he can call in a favor, he has this kinda wayward client who is in need of financial advice and my name comes to mind.
I figure at once who he means, on account NatWest is lead banker to Eurotunnel, but Bob says no, not Alastair, he is really quite rational some of the time, or least by comparison, Bob says, and keeps his account in good order, the only trouble is his sums do not add up, what they do instead is multiply.
It appears Bob's problem client is a single parent, or semi-detached, who is active in work for good causes that pay her expenses, but has to get by on a small private income, which she supplements by writing children's stories, about a poor little private jet called Chubbie, which has trouble with its payload ratio, and gets into scrapes and almost crashes, but somehow it bounces, or at least its checks do.