Ducks and stuff

The ducks were up early, waiting for Babeth to feed them, standing at her door like elderly people lining up outside the post office waiting for their pensions.
I was up early too.  The drugs seem to have found their way out of my system and it's back to the chalk face.
I'm now sitting in the bank, like a naughty child, dealing with my perpetual overdraft.  I was late back from our walk and the adviser looked me over briefly, taking in my muddy boots and the dog lead around my neck (weird image. sorry. I wasn't actually attached to it).  I didn't feel underdressed, I felt naked and was glad to hide behind my mask.
I'd hoped the bank staff would clock off at 5, but it's now quarter past and I'm still here while the adviser silently scrolls through tedious pages on her screen, no doubt uncovering my financial sins.
I've got my little book out and am scribbling away, hoping she'd think I was a struggling writer which seems more exotic than a teacher, scraping away on a few coppers more than the minimum wage, and would also explain my financial distress.
I staggered out of the confessional having signed my life away to some sinister capitalist conspiracy and went straight to the moulin for a gin and tonic (my nod towards frivolity)