2 little girls.

I still wonder to myself in increasingly regular vacant moments if I'm not just a really massive wimp and was coolly attacked by two 8-year-old girls, who steal my bag and flounce and peacock up the road with their pigtails whipping around mockingly in a fluid spring breeze.

Whether one of them might have had a little pink bike with a white basket and little ribbons on the handlebars, a sinister mode of transport if ever I could conjure one in my mind's eye. One is perversely conscientious, stockpiling others' possessions like so many squirrels waiting for winter - higher education doesn't come cheap, she's aspirational.

The other one, the steely-eyed minx, a dealer of misery, she is stealing money to pay for her Barbie's smack habit - if you're a parent, let me be the one to tell you that they're not having tea parties in their rooms anymore; it's all snorting cocaine off Ken's six-pack and shooting up in the Wendy House, a Fisher Price kitchen to knock up a quick cheese omelette when they get the munchies. They believe in Santa, they've seen him in their trips and phantasms.

In my nearby dreams I'm haunted by the sound of spokes rattling and a sharp bell going ring-ring, ring-ring. A fluorescent thought, it mocks by my side.

Seriously, though - Barclay's? Worst bank in the world.