Commuting again

As some of you know, I’ve been at home for a while now, developing a detailed understanding of my children’s appalling table manners (and helping my wife start a business, of which you will soon, I’m sure, be made aware). I’m not doing that any more, though. I’m working – in a glittering tower in the quite amazing Mediaeval walled city they call Canary Wharf.

I wear a swipe card on a ribbon, eat stone-baked pizza in a gorgeous cafeteria and shop in a supermarket that has its own sushi bar. It’s disorienting and quite exotic and I’m enjoying it a lot. I’m working with some clever young people (who humour me when I tell them stories about the old days) and after work we go to a bar where a girl dispenses Tequila from a sort of gun-belt.

Back in the office, we’re covering the walls in colourful plans and flow charts and filling the empty desks with more clever people as fast as we can. What we’re up to, though, is a secret…

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