It was a small branch of Barclay's bank located in Kensington High Street, somewhat incongruously between a betting shop of impeccable moral standards and an undertaker of definitive sobriety.
Patricia Wack was the teller that first took ones attention upon entering. She was blond and brassy and dressed in a pin stripe grey business suit that appealed to certain middle aged gentlemen with unconventional sexual fantasies.
The front door opened and in walked a frog.
“Can I help you?” asked Ms Wack.
“Yes I’d like a loan,” he replied, with protruding eyes taking in the tellers’ fine neck.
“Of course sir. There is a form to fill in, but may I ask if you have any collateral?”
The frog produced a small, ivory carved figurine and placed it on the counter.
“There you are. That’s my collateral, plus I think I should inform you that my father is Mick Jagger.”
Being blond of course had nothing to do with it, and God forbid that anyone should think otherwise, but the teller was genuinely perplexed.
“Excuse me sir, would you mind waiting for a few minutes while I go and speak to my manager?”
“Not at all,” replied the frog.
She left her seat and went to the nearby office of Mr Cuthbert Ffrench (with two “f’s”), a good humored individual of sterling character but short in stature. Ms Wack had always been told by her grandmother to be careful of men with short legs, on the premise that their brains were too near their bottom. But then, we don’t get to choose our superiors, do we?
“There’s a new customer out front Mr Ffrench; a frog who wants a loan, has offered this object as collateral and thinks it pertinent to inform me that his father is Mick Jagger. I really don’t understand.”
Cuthbert barely blinked and replied in a somewhat condescending tone;
“Simple. It’s a nick knack Patty Wack, give the frog a loan. His old mans’ a Rolling Stone.”
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Originally Posted by MANICHAEAN
