"I'm locked out of my account," he said, his head dropping into his hands.
She looked up from her knitting, the click-click-click of the needles pausing for a second, maybe two, before beginning again.
"What do you mean?" she asked, knowing full well what he meant, but she liked to play the idiot - knowing more than her seemed to please him.
"I can't get access to my funds! The password has been changed! I must have been hacked!"
The needles paused for another second, and then, "Are you sure you used the right password? Didn't you change it last week?"
He swore, looking briefly in her direction, and then went to the drawer in the unit by the television. It was here he kept his password book. He disguised it by calling it an "address book" and the accounts were listed amongst names, numbers and addresses of real people. Mr and Mrs Bank was the name of his bank account, and the password was written in there in pencil. He peered at it and then took off his glasses to clean them.
...
