Dear oh dear. / Well, I, er ... I just really hope he knows what he thinks he's doing, for his sake, not mine - though I'll have to write about him again if it all goes wrong, which it will. / You see, Mr Clunie is leaving Scottish Weirdos to join Jupiter, not yet, but in July, when it's hot, but it's always hot, at Jupiter, because they've got the burning love, which no one has told Jamie about, I'm sure.
I don't know how he'll cope. Yes, Jamie has this PhD of his. Indirect short-selling constraints or some nonsense. 'Oh, that's nice.' But he's not a financial shaman, is he? He hasn't been to the University of Life and Death. 'Not many have, Mikey.' He hasn't been touched in the desert by a shadowy figure. 'Well ...' Shut up, Voice, I'm thinking, man. / He can't leave. I'm thinking I'll have to step in. 'Eh?' I've got ten weeks, roughly, to put a stop to this. Who do I know at Scottish Weirdos? 'No one.' You're right. I don't know anyone. Shit!
I'll have to speak to one of my mates at Jupiter. Simple Simon, maybe. Or Cedric. 'What are you going to say?' I don't know. Just ... it's going to be a nightmare training Jamie up. He won't be able to hit the ground running with this total return and equity long-short thing they've got in mind for him. 'Surely, he has some experience from working with the strange ones?' No, Voice. As strange, as weird, as they are, they don't know shit about mystical capitalism.
I'll sort it, don't worry, Voice, reader(s). / But I should be concentrating on my music. I haven't got the time or the energy to be writing this blog, dealing with finance nutjobs, and writing songs. I'm only human. 'I thought you were superhuman?' Yeah, I wish.
I played my guitar for three hours yesterday. And I'll do a couple of hours today, though I'll be working on another conceptual as well, No. 113. 'How many more of those posts are you going to write, man?' As many as it takes. 'For what?!' Mind your own business.
Lunch? Egg sandwich, cheese and onion crisps, strawberry yoghurt, a can of Coke. / Laters.
I don't know how he'll cope. Yes, Jamie has this PhD of his. Indirect short-selling constraints or some nonsense. 'Oh, that's nice.' But he's not a financial shaman, is he? He hasn't been to the University of Life and Death. 'Not many have, Mikey.' He hasn't been touched in the desert by a shadowy figure. 'Well ...' Shut up, Voice, I'm thinking, man. / He can't leave. I'm thinking I'll have to step in. 'Eh?' I've got ten weeks, roughly, to put a stop to this. Who do I know at Scottish Weirdos? 'No one.' You're right. I don't know anyone. Shit!
I'll have to speak to one of my mates at Jupiter. Simple Simon, maybe. Or Cedric. 'What are you going to say?' I don't know. Just ... it's going to be a nightmare training Jamie up. He won't be able to hit the ground running with this total return and equity long-short thing they've got in mind for him. 'Surely, he has some experience from working with the strange ones?' No, Voice. As strange, as weird, as they are, they don't know shit about mystical capitalism.
I'll sort it, don't worry, Voice, reader(s). / But I should be concentrating on my music. I haven't got the time or the energy to be writing this blog, dealing with finance nutjobs, and writing songs. I'm only human. 'I thought you were superhuman?' Yeah, I wish.
I played my guitar for three hours yesterday. And I'll do a couple of hours today, though I'll be working on another conceptual as well, No. 113. 'How many more of those posts are you going to write, man?' As many as it takes. 'For what?!' Mind your own business.
Lunch? Egg sandwich, cheese and onion crisps, strawberry yoghurt, a can of Coke. / Laters.
