Gentlemen's hours

It has been a fortnight of intense bank activity for me. I can't describe how hideous it was, so unecessary, so utterly futile. It all started with the saga of the missing cheques. Two of them to be precise. I had stashed them so cunningly I was sure that I would not lose them. Oh well, mental note to never do that again. I worked late at the bindery in order to get Friday afternoon off work so I could try to find clothes and attend to the banking business. Get there, find out I forgot one of the cheques and later on found that the other was dishonoured. So I felt a little hollow from that experience.
My next skirmish was when I found out I can't just hand over a deposit slip with my account number on it. No, it has to be signed and stamped by a trained professional from the local branch. I wondered if it was about the public's inability to write down numbers, or perhaps to check the spelling of names? Charitably I will assume it is something to do with veryifying the existence and use of an account in the face of Dunedin's epic money laundering problems. I'm sure it's tied in with the Chin Dynasty.
I whippeted out of work on Wednesday afternoon, dashed to the bank and got there just on 4.30. I was completely disgusted to find that they had locked the doors already. How can it be that banks close so early? What do they do for the rest of the time we mere mortals are popping blood vessels working hard for the money? After all, it is not as though there has to be someone manually adding and balancing the days transactions. What do they all do?
I stormed off in a tanty and purchased something to make myself feel better. It was a pretty swish piece of retail therapy I admit, a 5m RCA/USB cable so I can play music on the computer through the stereo. Highly necessary since I have disposed of pretty much all my CDs.
I was distracted anyway, but not for long. Don't think you are off the hook bank, I still hate you and the horse you rode into town on. I had to give up my break just to fit in with the gentlemen's hours kept in the establishment.
The image above is how I imagine bankers spend their free time when not inconveniencing me.