They could be in Starbucks or Costa or Caffe Nero, those small chains of islands offering refuelling and victualing to the passers-by. They sit near the window, half visible, their beauty demanding you have a second, a third glance to check out whether that stopped-in-your-tracks, double-take vision of loveliness is real.
You see spotless white linen blouses, a touch of cleavage, smart business skirts cut to that length which should spell danger to us all, legs long-stockinged, ending in shoes hinting at the chance to finally act out all those wild fantasies you’ve nurtured all these years.
And once you are inside, lured in, reeled in, they promise fast cars, luxury Caribbean island hideaways, never ending lines of mind-expanding white powder, and accurate forecasts of how the markets will behave over the next week.
The bankers never stood a chance. They should have used beeswax.