The Wank Manager (aka the Farming Banker): Does Persistence Harvest Dividends?

I was pondering all week what to write for my next blog, and I’m a little bothered that I still can’t really tell you about what’s going on in my current chaotic love life. As I was sitting here toying over a few ideas, true to Tigresse luck, the story came to me—or rather to my phone. Some of you might recall from the Top 12 Text Messages of 2012 a message from the “Wank Manager” … well, since this new message I just got was from him, I thought it was only fair to give you a little introduction.

 With the beep-beep of my text message alert, I was surprised to see the sender of this new SMS: The Wank Manager: Hey there Tigresse! How are things? What’s up? Jeez, I thought, he was the absolute last person I was expecting to hear from. Not to be mean or anything, but what did this guy not understand? The Wank Manager is his new nickname; we actually used to refer to him as the Farming Banker, so since this first part of the story comes from that era, let’s revert to it. The updated nickname will come in Part II.

I first met the Farming Banker many, many moons ago in the days of “Book 1.” He was such a dud he doesn’t even deserve his own chapter in that volume (just an SMS reference) … however, since then he has earned his place in other writings … I’ll wait for Book 2 or 3 to give you the full story, but in the meantime here is an entertaining overview/preview.

On the surface, it isn’t surprising why the Farming Banker originally caught my eye. He’s quite good looking, tall, broad shouldered and sports golden blond hair. He almost looks a little like a stereotypical football quarterback, and thus not my usual type at all—but I have been known for my occasionally completely illogical romantic behavior. He’s from Normandy, and is the son of dairy farmers. He’s working as a bank manager, but his true dream is to save enough money to buy his parents’ farm, give up banking, and move back to Normandy. Which is absolutely fine … for him! I just can’t see myself as a fulltime milkmaid.

On the few dates that we did go on (five or six years ago), he would never, ever pay for me; it was always 50-50. I’m a modern woman and all, but buying the girl’s drink on a first date should be normal gallantry, especially since the first time we went out, he suggested getting a soda in a take-away sandwich shop on the Champs Elysées which cost about two dollars. I know, I know; we shouldn’t be wondering why he didn’t pick up that meagre bill; we should be debating why I accepted to go out with him a second time! Or for that matter, a third, fourth or fifth time!

That first summer, after we’d had a few dates, he went home for the holidays. Come September, he’d dropped off the face of my romantic earth. I figured he must have met a sweet, innocent Norman farm girl and was happily engaged, preparing for his future return to the country. I probably grumbled to the girls about his disappearing act, though not for too long, as others quickly filled his place.

Over the years, I truly barely thought about him. He hadn’t crossed my mind in absolute ages. Then one night two winters ago, the Countess and I were getting a drink after a movie. Something in the movie must have sparked something in my mind because I got around to complaining about two men: Jacques, the French Canadian banker for the Russian mafia (featured in upcoming Book 1); and the other banker I knew, Mr. Cheapo Farming Banker. Checking my email on my way home, I had two new messages: one from each of them! Incredible! Their ears must have been ringing off the hook.

The Farming Banker had gone to the trouble of Google-searching me, and miraculously without even knowing my last name, managed to track me down via my LinkedIn account. He then set up his own profile so that he could contact me! For someone who can be completely clueless in many respects, he can apparently also be rather clever. I was intrigued as to why he’d gone to such trouble to contact me, so when he suggested getting together, how could I really refuse? In fact, my curiosity was getting the better of me. The real question in my mind was: “Could the Farming Banker be as thrifty as he used to be?” Only one way to find out … and so I agreed to see him the following Saturday night …

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *