Counting House (Bank)

Paul Sheldon (Misery)

I’m not writing any more self-help books after this one.

I never really considered it, when I started doing this (shoulda done really), but the idiots you have to deal with in this game; it's unbearable. Starting to become too much.

Still, I’ve made a wad of cash outa these mugs, so shouldn’t really bite the hand that feeds me, but geez, whata lame, handicapped hand it really is.

My first book "The Ten Successful Habits of Highly Reprehensible People" was an absolute smash, especially with the highly lucrative, Young Professional and D**ktard market. My second; "Unnecessary Meetings"... was a total belter too, picking up on the Aspirational c**k demographic. The third, a gripping rollercoaster of verbal diarrhoea and nonsense, called "Taking Sides to Win" sealed my reputation as a gob-s***e sans comparison.

But it’s spiralled out of control and now I want out.

With the advent of e-mail, blackberries etc. it seems that there is nowhere that I can hide from these idiots. I can’t go anywhere without being badgered. I feel like an ugly David Beckham, yeah, like a Craig Bellamy.

“How do I get my girlfriend back?”
“I screwed up my driving test, is life still worth it?”
“My hamster hates me, what's my next move?”

Tossers! I’ve had enough, so I’m calling this one my last.

Now it’s a tradition for me, that when I near the end of a book, I like to pen the final few chapters in a favourite pub of mine. So as usual, I’ve come to The Counting House in London's financial heart (I like to be surrounded by pillocks, for inspiration). This boozer used to be a bank, the high ceilings and marble pillars, bring out the greed in me, and inspire my pen.

So I settle down, like a prannie, with my favourite double-tops, 'Lap and Carling',..and get writing.

So I’m tapping away, just starting the penultimate chapter “Smalltalk in confined spaces”, sub-section “Lifts”, when a chunky bird in her late forties (I’d hazard), staggers over, dangling a glass of Chardonnay.

“I’m your number one fan” she says.

“Are you indeed,” I said *looking up*,..”Yeah, now that I look at you, I can see that you are the type to read one of my books!”

“What do you mean by that!?” she said, aggrieved.

“Oh nothing” I sighed, “Please leave me alone, I’ve almost finished the final chapter”

“Final chapter!” she said, “I hope to Christ that you’ve covered off the secret to curing binge eating and obesity!”

“Yes, it is the final chapter, and No, it will make no reference to obesity, since I think the cure for that is self evident!”

“Why you!..You pr,…”,.. and she went for me.

I managed to swerve her advance (slow and clumsy it was), and told her to “Watch it!” that I was “Going to the bar, and did not want to see her upon my return.”

I got up and went to the bar, fretting under my breath.

Now, the bar is shaped much like an athletics track in here, and when I got there, the lone barman passed me at pace, oblivious. So I set off after him, a bit like a reverse stagger in a 400 metres race,.. I was almost upon him when I felt a real blow to the back, and I was bowled directly into the handicapped toilets.

Someone locked the door behind me.

After a couple of minutes banging and ranting, she finally spoke from behind the door.
“Are you willing to be reasonable?” She said.

“Swivel Porkpie” I replied.  And I heard her slump down the other side of the door.

“I’ve got all the time in the world baby,” she said.

*I sat on the bog, and suddenly it comes to me, a moment of clarity – Just say anything to the stupid tart, to get out, idiot.*

“Ok. Ok, sorry Sweetheart, yes, of course it curable, Its glandular, after all”, I said, in a toxically sweet fashion.

The door pops open as she says “That’s all I needed to hear baby”

“Thank god” I pretend sigh, as I get up off the seat to leave.

“Oh no no”, she says, as she enters the toilet, locking the door behind her, “You and I ain’t through,..not by a long shot sugar!”

Paul Sheldon’s rating for The Counting House – 8 / 10

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