Craic On

Banking is a dirty word these days and Bankers have come in for a pasting. Bank Station, with it’s ongoing improvement work, huge levels of public investment and disgruntal travellers is not a bad metaphor for anyone mystified by Banking. It’s confusing. It’s a constantly changing terrain down in Bank tube station, with it’s temporary signage that is like the small print in a loan agreement and just too tricky to read, it’s temporary structures, and all the twists and turns that only served to undermine my confidence in my own judgement because I ended up in Rotherhyde when I meant to go to Tooting. Dave, at Clapham North, has a technique for stuffing me in to the front carriage of the northbound rush hour service so I’m in the right place when I get to Bank. At Bank it’s my fellow commuters I generally rely on. While the ones that tut and complain at my dithering presence assume a greater importance in my consciousness than they deserve, spare a thanks for the people who go out of their way. The bes