Dear little whistling boy you don't know me but how sweet the sound that you produce is to my ears, my senses, as I sit in this bank totting up figures on a page.  If I closed my eyes you could be the tiny robin perched on the tree beyond my kitchen window, so lyrical is the music you make with your lips. To be here in this bank so unburdened with worry, happy in one of those grey functional bank chairs with the shiny steel legs. The  chair is your branch little whistling boy. Your foot taps rhythmically against the school bag on the floor. The bag full of books that promise to help you along the path to adulthood, the books that will lure you into life. Will you forget how to whistle when you have reached your quota?  Will your music diminish with the weight of your existence in this world? The queue that I rise from my chair to join is a steely snake that makes me wonder if you will answer yes to my questions. No one whistles in this line. People are consumed with their own thoughts and the time and how long they have to wait. A man ahead of me keeps the hood of his jacket up and has a sinister air about him. He fidgets on his feet as if unaccustomed to staying still. Impatient he forms his hands into tight fists, relaxes and repeats the process. His behaviour unsettles me. Overhead on the TV screen is a woman who beams broadly, happy to be granted a loan, she is suddenly shown participating in a Salsa Class. Money can buy you happiness according to the Bank. Look at that woman's face!   But now, money means nothing to you, does it little whistling boy? It is mere paper. But someday, someday you will see that it matters. But promise me something little whistling boy.  Please don't stop whistling. Don't stop tapping your foot. Keep the tune in your head and always, always leave your hands spread wide open.