Days of a Kuwaiti Bank Teller

A stranger walks into the branch. A bank ID tag is clipped to his pocket and in his arm, a clipboard. I groan and nudge my co-worker. As usual Chimney isn't in his seat, so she is the only co-worker warned in time. They've come to evaluate us.

They are bank employees whose appearances in the branches are feared second only to the Audit division. Their appearances are few and short-lived but they carry quite a sting.

I smile as he approaches me. In return he just nods briskly. This one is going to be trouble.

"What's your name?"

I tell him and he scribbles it down furiously on his notepad. He looks up again.

"How long have you been working here?"

I let him know and he is surprised at my answer. It's a common reaction. People always comment on how young I look.

"Why are you wearing a shirt that color?"

Excuse me? I thought I'd misheard him and heard "color" instead of "collar". Apparantly not. He lectures me upon the value of wearing quiet colors and I sit there frozen. Then I remember that I have a voice. What I said to him isn't fit to be repeated. It's safe to say that my evaluation marks are going to be lower than usual.

I don't know if other jobs face this crisis but two things that constantly go missing in our branch are rubber bands and pens.