Having a Laugh

Back in the UK , pre-volcano, we waited like naughty children in a glass and steel edifice on The Strand watching the Koi in a Japanese inspired pond.  Don’t be fooled by the modern architecture,  the British banking system is still Dickensian, in fact I think it may even be governed by medieval law, only appearances have changed.  I had to bite my tongue several times as it wanted to say “Please sir, can we ‘ave some money?” as we were led to a wood panelled room and I sat trying to shake off the feeling of being back in the Headmistress’ Office.  The Headmistress/Banker had beautiful manners and was highly skilled in the art of retrieving information through inane conversation.  It was a marvellous performance with excellent timing but  alas minus the laughs.  He kept coming back to my whereabouts between the years 1986 and 1990 – a kibbutz perhaps, terrorist cell? his intonation implied.  My vague reply of “travelling” without further elaboration made his eyebrows knit together and I silently chalked up a one on my side of the table. 

We’ve developed a sort of comedy routine now with those wielding the power.   Mr. J. is the serious one, razor sharp on-the-button with the figures handling all the papers.  I am the dipsy sidekick whose precise role I have yet to determine.  The most I can say is that I provide a bit of light entertainment and humanise Mr. J., who can be a bit frightening in his manières Suisses. Note to British Bankers: the Swiss don’t understand polite, inane questions or euphemisms they only state facts and answer all questions directly and honestly.  Yes I know it is astonishing, even marvellous as you say,  AND  BECAUSE OF THIS they (the Swiss) get a smidgen impatient at times.  (I noticed that at one point the Banker’s coffee cup was shaking as the steely blue eyes of my Swiss man bore down on him waiting for him to catch up.  I know how powerful that look is as I occasionally get it when I baffle him).

I have begged not to come along to these meetings as my neck aches from nodding knowingly at well timed intervals and I fear my eye balls may permanently glaze over but Mr. J. explained that as I will be a co-owner I have to, apparently, show up and sign my name on lots of pieces of paper in my best handwriting.  There was one suppressed snigger moment when Mr. J. had to provide a personal code and he used the dog’s name.  I mean here we are in Coutts, on the Strand, in a wood panelled meeting room drinking out of bone china cups  and he writes not chuchichäschtli (Swiss German for kitchen cupboard pronounced hooheehayshlee, as you know) which would have given them something to think about or even the regal sounding Jungfrau,  just plain old Molly.  That’s the Swiss for you,  nothing bloody bollocks about them at all. 

 When we were leaving we were politely asked as to our plans for the rest of the trip and Mr. Jules, fooled again, answered honestly and enthusiastically that he was going to queue up for tickets for The Comedy Store.  I wanted to kick his shins but desperate for a laugh at this stage I threw my hat into the ring and said I was going off to a Vinyasa Flow yoga class in (stinky, full of hippies) Soho adding in my intonation that yes there would be incense and, heaven forbid, even a bit of chanting.  The Banker’s eyebrows knitted together again and I gleefully upped my one point to two.  I could sense we  had disappointed him by not having a appointment at Sotheby’s followed by lunch at Claridges but ho-hum.

As a treat I told Mr. J. I would come with him that night to the Comedy Store so he went along and queued up for an hour to get the door tickets.  (I only huff and hum about going so he offers to do the queuing while I go back to the hotel for a nice shower and to change out of serious would-be-first-time-buyers gear: pearls, cashmere sweater, Hermès scarf and Tod’s ballerinas to girl about town: leather jacket, jeans, pony tail).  It is rather sweet that he loves English stand up comedy, lui, mon homme Suisse.  The last time we were there too many girls were squeazed into too few clothes wearing bunny ears and standing around drinking pints. The women still drink masses (mostly pints) but there were more properly dressed females this time.  I even spotted some families up from the home counties and worried that maybe they had got the wrong venue and were supposed to be across the road watching Mama Mia.

You’ve got to know where to sit at the Comedy Store.  When our friend Young Dave was last there he was late back to his place in the front row after the interval and the comedian spent the rest of the session picking on him.  The fact that he is a chartered accountant probably didn’t help either.  I always make Mr. J. sit a few rows back as the answer of Switzerland in an accent heavy with German undertones to the question Where are you from?  would be the equivalent of winning the stand up comic’s lottery to them.