Jane walked into the bank and calmly joined the queue.  At one window, a middle-aged cashier was dealing coolly with a middle-aged customer.  Friendly chit-chat, but at no detriment to the efficiency of the transaction, a transaction which they had surely conducted, respectively, thousands and hundreds of times previously.  Jane was buoyed.

At the other window, a builder laboured under the mistaken impression that his hefty red and purple wad was somehow impressive to the pretty young cashier, a woman who, after all, sat by a drawer full of cash in a room full of cash next door to a room full of jewels and gold for forty hours a week, and who was, frankly, already sick of the sight of money just seven weeks into the graduate scheme.  Jane was dismayed.

Ahead of her in the queue were a greasy, frustrated man pointedly flicking a cheque; an Orthodox Jewish man clutching some sort of leather document wallet; an old lady’s zimmer, as placeholder for an old lady, who sat nearby on a boxy sofa thing; a cheerful-faced twentysomething and her toddler, in matching Strokes t-shirts; and another builder.  Jane contemplated trying a different branch.

But no. Remember what Tommy said.  Patience.  She took a breath and another run through her mental checklist.  “Good things come.  Good things come…”

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