Here's yesterday's entry.

Will follow with today's entry shortly after (damned blog errors)


I realize that yesterday's brief rant of bitching actually served as an emotional novocaine of sorts to my beleaguered soul. Strange, but it goes some way to explaining the Adrian Moles and the Bridget Joneses of this world. So today, I have decided to provide a somewhat experimental foray and test run a series of observations, some of which border on bitchy, others of which are just plain abstruse.

Now I could outline a straightforward "bitch" narrative in which I complain assidously about the horrible drive to work, the need to go against all my habits and gorge myself for breakfast(because I'm never assured of time for lunch), the public and the constant source of wonder I derive from their inability to read the words: "CASH DEPOSIT MACHINE" or "CHEQUE DEPOSIT COUNTER". (and to some of you, I already have done this, and more, over and over, until your "heads grew heavy and your sight grew dim." bwahaahhah)

However, I shall unleash a fusillade of random points. I actually catalogued a few observations I expressly wanted to gripe about today. So here there are. uh huh uh huh. ooh yeah. shake it baby.

a) The toilet has a generator in it. It is the only toilet I have ever seen with a fully functional gasoline generator just in front of the toilet bowl(there's just enough space
to stand in between the bowl and the generator to perform your ablutions). I find that highly fascinating! A generator! In a toilet! (it's the bank's back-up power supply, for the congenitally thick)

b) There are two security guards there. One is an amusing, garrulous, scoundrel type who has lived in Australia, reputedly has contacts with some seriously wealthy Malay tycoons he met while abroad(he alludes to the camaraderie of Malays overseas as a uniting bond that transcends classes), is fleeing a court order against him(in New Zealand) for unpaid debts, and a felony suspicion, if his highly suspect stories are true. The other has only said about four words to me since I started work, wears blue-tinted sunglasses, and carries the shotgun.

There is a certain *rightness* to things that the guy who talks the least carries the gun. I have to come call him Silent, as a nod to the wizard from Glen Cook's Black Company series(the inspiration to the computer game Myth: The Fallen Lords and a rattling good yarn for fans of comparative morality:). I once remarked to Silent. "Funny how Hasan(the talkative guard) yaks so much and you never say anything and all. It balances out." He sort of smiled. I'm not sure if it was a polite, meaningless smile, or a flash of true Zen appreciation. I shall probably never know.

I might add that Hasan has formally told me that if a robber ever comes, at night, he'll be glad to help him load up the ATM machine into a truck. He claims that him and Silent are there for purely formal insurance purposes. As he put it: "The security company and the bank have a back-scratch deal with one another. The robbers are another story. The police are YET another story."

c) Today we had a meeting. I actually planned to say a LOT about the meeting, but once again, the raw seething waves of hatred and self-loathing and hypomanic fits seem to have faded somewhat now that I'm at home, and well-fed, and looking forward to watching some VCDs before I head to sleep. All I shall say now is that, if I liked Scott Adams' Dilbert work before, I am now *living* them. With the pointy-haired manager, Quality Initiatives, surreal office politics, and all.

d) Actually, at the meeting, our assistant manager(ABM) was pointing out that my branch is legendary for the numbers of complaints, etc etc. And unfortunately, a lot of wealthy golfing partners of our managing director seem to have chosen our branch as their whipping boy in conversational topics over the fairway. AND this is despite a lot of informal commentary that we provide some of the best service among branches - although formal complaints are the ones that get filed. When the ABM was assigned to a ulu suburban area, he said he received abuse, threats, scoldings, in greater amounts than we do here.. but only one written complaint? Why? Because, he said, in cheena areas, they can't be bothered to write in.

Unfortunately our area is kind of like Holland Village, with yuppies, expatriates, the nouveau riche, restauranteurs, hairdressers, small(but wealthy) businessmen, and these people all LOVE to bitch. Formally. In letters that get attached to our personnel files. I had to restrain an insane urge to orate sonorously: "The evil that men do lives on after them, the good is oft interred with their bones."

e) And, finally, a word of kudos for my ABM. He's cynical, mean, swears a lot, smokes like a chimney... but cares for his staff(us poor sods). He had a bad hiatus in Singapore for a few years, and has emerged the equivalent of the broken down, contemptuous, hard-bitten lieutenant in a Verdun trench who constantly prods and holds his staff together through sheer force of will. He gives good advice, when he isn't swearing at HQ, the cheque clearers, the credit card department, our manager, the customers, and any of our obstacles at work. He is the linchpin of our "us against the rest of the damn world" esprit de corps that infuses my colleagues.