(Here) is the original.
Imagine a plucky chap in the First World War catching a Jerry bullet through the shoulder before he’d even got to the top of the trench ladder and you’ll sense what I was sensing as the realisation hit me.
Grey suit, subtle checked shirt, discreet tie…sweaty ankle socks, O’Neill trainers. Not quite the ‘appropriate business casual attire’ for the values-compliant office environment.
Up with a spring in my step and a song in my heart at oh-six-thirty hours this morning, after four and half hours of refreshing sleep following a white knuckle ride through some formatting changes in the current year management accounts which had rendered like-for-like analysis on a comparable basis all but impossible.
Having left the chimplets early (refusing to eat their Cheerios despite their grandparent’s best efforts), I arrived at Big Office House at the unusually early time of 8.40am, presenting a golden opportunity to get a flying start to what will inevitably be a long and painful week.
Having left the chimplets early (refusing to eat their Cheerios despite their grandparent’s best efforts), I arrived at Big Office House at the unusually early time of 8.40am, presenting a golden opportunity to get a flying start to what will inevitably be a long and painful week.
I practically skipped into the male changing rooms (the only part of the UK currently over 30 degrees C in this most Novemberish of Junes), then suddenly f_cking realised that I’d f_cking left my f_cking shoes at f_cking home.
Imagine a plucky chap in the First World War catching a Jerry bullet through the shoulder before he’d even got to the top of the trench ladder and you’ll sense what I was sensing as the realisation hit me.
Grey suit, subtle checked shirt, discreet tie…sweaty ankle socks, O’Neill trainers. Not quite the ‘appropriate business casual attire’ for the values-compliant office environment.
The next forty minutes (the entire time available to prepare for the first conference call of the day, and then some) were spent pounding the streets in search of a shoe shop that was open – it’s surprising how difficult it is to find one in such a footwear-rich place as London. After 10 minutes, I was jealously eyeing shoe-wearers as they blithely breezed past, inanely unaware of how lucky they were. After 20 minutes, I was actively looking for anyone with size 11 feet and a semi-decent pair of shoes to punch out cold, grab his footwear, and tip his lifeless body into the river. Luckily a local loafer-monger eventually obliged, and I finally made it back to the office by taxi, some 10 minutes late for the entire week.
And I haven’t caught up since.
Right, time for lunch, then I have meeting at Bulge Bracket Trust LLC.
