Life in a Bank Vault

Neal’s Belch no. 141 for 25th June, 2004

I’ve often wondered what it would be like to live in a bank vault, under the gaze of a security camera all day.

I’m sure having your entire life recorded on tape would be fine. The problem would arise when you find out that, every forty eight hours or so, they tape over the last two days of your life to save tape. It’s not really the life for somebody with an ego. Somebody with an egg would be fine, but not somebody with an ego.

If you had an egg you could break it open and use the sharp edges of the broken shell to pick the lock once a day, sneak out to the video camera room, and replace the cassette with a new one which you have cleverly manufactured by melting down your belt using the the heat from the egg (boiled), and turning it into a video tape You can do anything if you think about it for long enough.

But you must have an egg. Which I, unfortunately, don’t.

I used to have an egg. But I got hungry, and decided to eat it. And now I don’t have an egg, I’m afraid. Still, no point crying over spilt milk.

So I’ve decided to drop the idea of living in a bank safe. It’s just not the same if you don’t have an egg. I’m going to live in a house instead. A great big one with a roof and walls and all that fancy crap, so I won’t even want an egg when I have all that. Unless I get hungry again or somthing. But that’s not likely to happen twice, is it? Hunger is not like lightning.

The only problem I’m likely to have, is if a bolt of thunder scares somebody else’s egg (perhaps a next door neighbour), the egg hatches in the confusion, the owner gets hit by a flash of lightning and dies and the chicken sees me when it hatches and thinks that I’m it’s mother.

If that happens, I’m going to have to buy food for the chicken until it gets big enough for me to trade it for a cow. When that happens, I’ll be able to milk the cow and use the milk to sterilise the back yard, which it will then be clean enough to use as a nursery for chickens. Then, eventually, I’ll have my own steady supply of eggs. So it won’t really be a problem after all.

I think my ideal home would be a three storey townhouse with a yellow brick path leading from the front gate to the back door. And a huge chimney out of which would blow white smoke from the flour that I habitually throw on my carpet to brighten the place up, usually on a wet Sunday afternoon.

But I could also be happy in a bungalow, so long as it had central heating and enough space to grow turnips and daffodils in the front garden. I don’t like to grow vegetables in the back garden. I prefer to put them proudly on display out front, right beside the road, where people can look over the wall and salivate at my beautiful turnips and rhubarbs. I like to show off.

I’m not a modest man. After all, what the hell have I got to be modest about? It’s not as if I have any imperfactons of any kind. I wish I had some ordinary human failings, so that I could identify with the rest of you. Unfortunately, I don’t, so there’s no point dreaming. Unless it’s a daydream, which is always worth it because it gets you through a boring car journey, especially if it’s a long straight road and you’re the driver.

Just try not to keep your eyes closed for too long. It worries the other road users and your passengers. People get quite uptight these days. You’re not even allowed to put wet fingers into an electric socket nowadays. You get told, by the politically correct brigade, that it’s “dangerous”, and that you might “get killed”.

Well, I’m not going to allow myself to be a slave to these old fashioned conventions. I’m going out right now to walk along the centre white line of the road outside my house. I have to, anyway. I’m applying to become a tightrope walker and I don’t have any suitable rope on which to practice. I’ll make the white line walking feel more like tightrope walking, by instructing an assistant to kick the carp out of me if I set foot on a non-painted part of the road.

That will simulate the pain that I would experience if I stepped off the tightrope.

You may be wondering why I am applying for the post of tightrope walker.

Well, it’s all a con. I’ve realised that the circus’ main office is on route to my workplace. And you get paid expenses for attending the interview, so I’m getting a free ride to work that day. I love getting things free. Yesterday I got a free trolley at my local supermarket, and I’m going to have it melted down and made into coins, which I will use to pay the deposit that most other supermarkets charge for the use of their trolleys.

By the way, while I’m on the subject, I’d like to say hello to the person who sits outside my supermarket selling stickers which say “I’ve donated”. It’s really a very clever scam.

They sell you these stickers, and you wear them on your coat so that charity collectors think you’ve already donated, and they leave you alone. And the best thing is, all of the proceeds from the sale of these stickers, go to charity.