A City Christmas, with seasonal grumbles from Ebenezer and Timmy

In the narrow courts between Cornhill and Lombard Street, where the old City lives on, I find the senior partner in his seasonal bad temper. He likes to get on with his work but, he says, nobody else does — and, what is worse, nobody thinks that they should. ‘Take that clerk of mine, Cratchit,’ he grumbles. ‘I never see him at all. First of all it was stress and now it’s paternity leave. He’s taken the year off. Still expects to be paid. Claims he’s looking after Tiny Tim. When I told him that’s a poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket, he threatened me with a tribunal.’ His mood does not improve when a sharp-suited figure bounces in: ‘Merry Christmas, uncle! Can I cut you in on my new hedge fund? You pay the fees and I top-slice the profits. It’s sure to make money.’ ‘Money? What’s Christmas to you but a time for paying bills without money?’ ‘Yes, uncle, and quite right too.