Laughing All the Way From the Bank

It is the end of January and the snow is lying deep and crisp and even. It is the signal for some strange ritual behaviour. Zurich rings to the sound of giggling bankers running to the local Bentley dealers. There is a fug of fine cigar smoke that hangs over the city and champagne cork related hospital admissions are at their peak. East European prostitutes wake from their hibernation, shake the moth balls from their mink coats, and head off to feast at one of the glitzy hotspots. They hunt as a pack, circling the small, balding and helplessly coke adled alpha male bankers. Using their finely honed implants, they sniff out the weakest, moving in ruthlessly to take the prize, usually a juicy pay day or, if they hit the mother load, a fat cat husband. Yes, that`s right, it`s bank bonus time again.