Monday

I’m in the vault. I work here. I live here. When you’re the US Treasury Secretary, you need to know exactly how much money you have. All the time. It’s not much fun, living in a vault. Cash all over the place. No room to breathe. No room to swing a cat. Just me, my whiz-kid staff and a whole lot of dollars.

“Get me a coffee and a pretzel,” I say to the nearest whiz-kid, because I’m exhausted.

The kid looks cunning. He says: “How about you give me the money for a coffee and a pretzel? And then tomorrow, if market conditions are right, I’ll bring you two?”

I don’t have time for these coffee and pretzel mind games. I was up all weekend, trying to do something about Lehman Brothers and trying to sort out Merrill Lynch. I’ve had every damn banker in Wall Street crammed in here, all refusing to do anything. They all turned up in their limos. Whole damn street full of limos. Traffic jam of limos. Bastards.

I haven’t got a limo. I’m just a public servant. I’ve just got a vault.

Tuesday

Haven’t slept yet. Kinda seeing things. And I still can’t persuade any of these damn whiz-kids to get me a coffee and a pretzel. They all reckon there are now so many people selling coffee and pretzels that coffee and pretzels aren’t worth anything, and that the only sensible way to get hold of either is for me to nationalise a coffee and pretzel shop.

“No,” I say, although I can’t see how a coffee and pretzel shop is going to make much difference. Last night we nationalised AIG for $85 billion. First time anybody has nationalised anything financial since Roosevelt. This is a blow. On the upside, the whiz-kids now have enough room to play Twister.

In the afternoon, I call the old chief executive of AIG and fire him.

“But I’ll lose my limo,” he wails. “What kind of banker will I be without a limo?” I sigh. “Can you make coffee? Or pretzels?”

“No,” he says. “Bummer,” I say.

Wednesday

Met with the President last night. Had to explain the global economy, the intricacies of short-selling and the nature of toxic debts bundled into complex packages in the derivatives market. For Chrissakes, the guy wears Velcro shoes.

Thursday

I’m so tired. And I’m starving. I used to be the chief executive of Goldman Sachs. Those were the days. My own limo, and everything. An office you could move about in, and coffee and pretzels coming out my ears. I’d love to have that again when this job ends. Just got to make sure there’s still some banks.

For now I’d settle for some more room in the vault. So basically I’ve got to find a way to save some banks, and simultaneously unload a few hundred billion dollars more. Maybe even a trillion. Then this place could have a squash court.

Friday

Got it! I have hatched a plan to buy up billions of dollars worth of bad mortgages. Had to tell the President. He was on a swing in the White House garden, holding a coffee and a pretzel. He asked me to explain everything in terms he would understand, so I told him to imagine that the pretzel was a sub-prime mortgage, the coffee was the weak dollar and that I was the Federal Reserve. Then I drank the coffee and ate the pretzel.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “Get me another coffee and another pretzel,” I told him, “and we’ll try again.”

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