Not only that but Martin Cornish reckons these "people" are thinking of doing something. Can you believe it? These hellish "people" are thinking of doing something! Why doesn't Mr Cornish just tell them to piss off? There's snow everywhere, and "people" are knocking on his door! This is an outrage!
Or it would be, if Mr Cornish wasn't very pleased with the situation. You see, Marty is a man who likes to work with hedge fund start-ups. It takes all sorts to a make a world, doesn't it? Marty is the managing partner at law firm Katten Muchin Rosenman Cornish LLP. They focus on the financial services sector, including investment funds, regulatory and related corporate work, general banking and real estate finance. Anyway, the good news is, these hellish "people" [how I regret besmirching them now] are actually upstart hedgies. Marty is seeing more of them. They are knocking on his door at all hours. Marty "I see hedgies" Cornish. That's how he likes to be known. But could some of them be ghosts?
I have been speaking to Mr Cornish. This is what he told me: 'Mr Fowke, I can assure you that all the hedgies that come to my door are real people. There is no question of their being ghostly apparitions. What is wrong with you, man? (Mr Cornish, may I call you 'Marty'?) You may not call me 'Marty'. I want to keep this as formal as possible. (Mr Cornish, are you familiar with the ghosts of the dead financiers?) No, I am not. Who are they? (Well, obviously, they are a group of dead financiers, many of them ex-hedgies. They float around on the astral plane, and in my subconscious, and in yours.) Not in my subconscious, Mr Fowke. I think I would know. (With all due respect, Mr Cornish, you do not strike me as the kind of man who has an amazing amount of self-awareness, let alone any sort of contact with your innermost being, and -) My innermost being?! What nonsense is this? (Mr Cornish, please hear me out. Isn't it true that many of these "people" come to your door, and indeed knock on it, in the early hours of the morning, three or four in the morning? Isn't that so?) On occasion. (On occasion? I have it on good authority that it happens every night. Please tell me what happened last night.) How do you know about last night? (Come on, Marty, tell me.) I heard a loud knocking on my door at 3.15 this morning. (Your door? This was your bedroom door, wasn't it?) Yes, my first thought was that it must be a burglar. (Politely enquiring if he might have your car keys, perhaps?) I didn't know what he wanted. However, I sprang out of bed, and, dressed only in my pyjamas, I - (Like the R. Whites guy!) Yes, very much like him, er, Mr Whites, I opened the door. (And what confronted you?) How do you know all this? (Mr Cornish, tell me about the ghost!) It was a man, white as a sheet, and he wanted my advice about starting a hedge fund. (And you thought this was all perfectly reasonable, in your bedroom, at three in the morning, discussing the hedge fund industry with a man who you freely admit was as white as a sheet?!) I thought I was dreaming. So I didn't take it seriously. But he had very warm hands. (He touched you?) Yes. (Where did he touch you?) I would rather not say. (No wonder you didn't call the police.) Why would I call the police? It was only a dream, just a dream. (Oh, a dream! And in the morning you awoke to find £5,000 on your bedside table, a down payment for your services! How do you explain that?) I can't explain it.'
You see, dear reader? Some people refuse to believe in the supernatural. It doesn't matter what evidence you present them with. I can reveal that the white-as-a-sheet man was a hedge fund manager (let's call him 'Henry') who died a few years ago. After leaving Marty's house he flew over to my place to let me know what had happened. He said Marty was extremely rude and wouldn't even offer him a glass of lemonade. He paid the £5,000 though. Mr Cornish may be a bit of a pain, but Henry does need his advice - even after his illustrious career on our cold earth. Have you ever tried to set up a hedge fund in the physical world from the nebulous world of the astral plane? It's not something for the faint-hearted.
Or it would be, if Mr Cornish wasn't very pleased with the situation. You see, Marty is a man who likes to work with hedge fund start-ups. It takes all sorts to a make a world, doesn't it? Marty is the managing partner at law firm Katten Muchin Rosenman Cornish LLP. They focus on the financial services sector, including investment funds, regulatory and related corporate work, general banking and real estate finance. Anyway, the good news is, these hellish "people" [how I regret besmirching them now] are actually upstart hedgies. Marty is seeing more of them. They are knocking on his door at all hours. Marty "I see hedgies" Cornish. That's how he likes to be known. But could some of them be ghosts?
I have been speaking to Mr Cornish. This is what he told me: 'Mr Fowke, I can assure you that all the hedgies that come to my door are real people. There is no question of their being ghostly apparitions. What is wrong with you, man? (Mr Cornish, may I call you 'Marty'?) You may not call me 'Marty'. I want to keep this as formal as possible. (Mr Cornish, are you familiar with the ghosts of the dead financiers?) No, I am not. Who are they? (Well, obviously, they are a group of dead financiers, many of them ex-hedgies. They float around on the astral plane, and in my subconscious, and in yours.) Not in my subconscious, Mr Fowke. I think I would know. (With all due respect, Mr Cornish, you do not strike me as the kind of man who has an amazing amount of self-awareness, let alone any sort of contact with your innermost being, and -) My innermost being?! What nonsense is this? (Mr Cornish, please hear me out. Isn't it true that many of these "people" come to your door, and indeed knock on it, in the early hours of the morning, three or four in the morning? Isn't that so?) On occasion. (On occasion? I have it on good authority that it happens every night. Please tell me what happened last night.) How do you know about last night? (Come on, Marty, tell me.) I heard a loud knocking on my door at 3.15 this morning. (Your door? This was your bedroom door, wasn't it?) Yes, my first thought was that it must be a burglar. (Politely enquiring if he might have your car keys, perhaps?) I didn't know what he wanted. However, I sprang out of bed, and, dressed only in my pyjamas, I - (Like the R. Whites guy!) Yes, very much like him, er, Mr Whites, I opened the door. (And what confronted you?) How do you know all this? (Mr Cornish, tell me about the ghost!) It was a man, white as a sheet, and he wanted my advice about starting a hedge fund. (And you thought this was all perfectly reasonable, in your bedroom, at three in the morning, discussing the hedge fund industry with a man who you freely admit was as white as a sheet?!) I thought I was dreaming. So I didn't take it seriously. But he had very warm hands. (He touched you?) Yes. (Where did he touch you?) I would rather not say. (No wonder you didn't call the police.) Why would I call the police? It was only a dream, just a dream. (Oh, a dream! And in the morning you awoke to find £5,000 on your bedside table, a down payment for your services! How do you explain that?) I can't explain it.'
You see, dear reader? Some people refuse to believe in the supernatural. It doesn't matter what evidence you present them with. I can reveal that the white-as-a-sheet man was a hedge fund manager (let's call him 'Henry') who died a few years ago. After leaving Marty's house he flew over to my place to let me know what had happened. He said Marty was extremely rude and wouldn't even offer him a glass of lemonade. He paid the £5,000 though. Mr Cornish may be a bit of a pain, but Henry does need his advice - even after his illustrious career on our cold earth. Have you ever tried to set up a hedge fund in the physical world from the nebulous world of the astral plane? It's not something for the faint-hearted.
