“Hey, Ian!” he says as he skips past me down the stairs, 55, fit as a fiddle due to his exercise regime.
A fellow middle manager, his self-esteem needs met by the respect of his subordinates and the trust of his superiors, he saunters off on his lunchtime break, copy of the latest “Game of Thrones” novel in hand.
Yards ahead of me, he believes he’s moving forward in time, space, and life.
Everything is congruent, all is right in his world.
Clutching my edition of “The Flowers of Evil” I smile to think what Baudelaire would make of him.
A fellow middle manager, his self-esteem needs met by the respect of his subordinates and the trust of his superiors, he saunters off on his lunchtime break, copy of the latest “Game of Thrones” novel in hand.
Yards ahead of me, he believes he’s moving forward in time, space, and life.
Everything is congruent, all is right in his world.
Clutching my edition of “The Flowers of Evil” I smile to think what Baudelaire would make of him.
