5 April 2022
Tuesday. A confession, since nobody reads this. Some of my deposit boxes are wired to the police.
Not all of them. That would be vulgar. Some boxes hold exactly what a depositor ought to keep in a deposit box: cash, a gold bar, a nice necklace. Some are empty, because certain depositors are all talk. And some, a select few, are connected directly to an alarm, and anybody greedy enough to open the wrong one gets a great deal of noise for their trouble.
Which ones? I am not going to write that down. A bank manager who writes down which boxes are wired is a bank manager who will shortly be a former bank manager.
The robbers say they want to be set for life. I say: so do I, and I have a pension plan. They have a swag bag and an hour. We shall see whose strategy is sounder.
Today a crew stood in front of my boxes for nearly ten minutes, arguing. It was the happiest ten minutes of my career.
— The Manager
