Once in Glendara, I realized there was no way I could work a full morning on a pot of coffee, so I decided to see if the supermarket had any of those pastries that they make up with frozen dough, assuming they had reopened after the weekend. I could handle a pain-au-chocolat, I thought, driving around the square. When I passed the bank, I remembered that I needed to take Marina off as a signatory on the office check book. With some of the less savoury relatives she appeared to have, I decided I’d better do that sooner rather than later. So, I pulled in. The bank’s main door was open for the first time since Friday.

I was surprised to hear crying coming from inside: despite what you might think, not a particularly common occurrence on a Monday morning. And this wasn’t weeping, these were angry tears, more of a temper tantrum than upset.

The voice sounded familiar and, when I went inside, the blonde head was instantly recognisable even from the back. Amanda Jameson was standing in front of the only counter that was open, having a complete meltdown and screeching at the poor bank clerk. Connie, who had changed my dollars for me on Friday, was one of three people at work in the bank this morning, along with a security guard and a thin man with acne whose sole job seemed to be to encourage people away from the counter and towards one of three machines. He was hovering behind Amanda, wringing his hands, while the customers at the machines tried their best not to stare.

But it was impossible not to overhear; Amanda’s usual tone might be whispery but she had a voice that carried when she wanted it to. We all heard that she had “tried to conduct her business using a machine but the machine had refused to cooperate”. Having lost her temper with the machine and then the acne-faced young man, she had joined the queue for the counter, where she was now berating Connie.

“There’s nothing I can do, Mrs Jameson. I’m sorry. If the account is frozen, it’s frozen,” the bank clerk said firmly.

“And what exactly do you expect me to do for money?” Amanda’s voice reached an even higher pitch if that were possible. “What do you expect my boys to do for money?” Her hands were splayed on the counter and she was leaning into Connie’s face. A queue had already begun to form behind her.

Connie looked helplessly at Amanda, then glanced briefly over her shoulder and caught my eye. She didn’t try to convey anything, but I could see she was struggling, and though the whole thing was decidedly none of my business, I tapped Amanda on the shoulder. “Can I help?”