Yeah, the London office of Eaton Vance. Well, well ... / He's a high yield fund manager/analyst (or something) at Threadneedle. God knows what he'll be doing at Eaton Vance. 'He's going to be mixed up in all that European fixed income stuff, boss.' Oh. Thanks, Voice.
Dear reader(s), I actually like the look of our Jeffrey, you know. He has a pleasant face. He hasn't been worn down by life yet. 'How old is he, Mikey?' Early thirties, I would say. Maybe thirty-three, or thirty-four. He has nice hair. He probably uses conditioner. 'You reckon?' Well, I don't know. I'm just guessing.
Jeff's not a financial shaman though. No way is he a veteran of the desert. I mean, his skin is too smooth. His eyes too bright. 'I thought shamans had bright eyes?' When the fire is burning, man. The fire of money, yes. But I'm talking about a natural brightness. The sort of brightness that only the innocent have.
Our Jeff hasn't suffered. He hasn't wandered in waste land, so lonely with a blood-red moon above him. 'Not many have.' Jeff hasn't known dark nights of the soul. He hasn't been driven half insane by the ghosts of the dead financiers. 'Well ...' Has he even heard your voice, Voice? Have you ever whispered in his ear? 'No. But that can be arranged, boss.' Don't bother!
No, no, no ... / We'll let Jeff join Eaton Vance. We'll let him manage investments and research credit. He doesn't need to know about the other side of finance.
...
Lunch? Luxury egg sandwich today. I can't really afford it. But you only live once, don't you?
Music? I’m listening to Prince, Sign 'O' the Times. It's very good. However, he wanted it to be a triple album. Prince is his own worst enemy sometimes.
Pub tomorrow? Down by the river? Maybe. It all depends on the weather, and my migraines. / Some idiots keep nicking my favourite table. I mean, fucking reserving it - like that's an acceptable thing to do in a pub. I might have a word with Cromwell's ghost. 'He'll scare them off!' Yeah, that's what I'm thinking, Voice.
Dear reader(s), I actually like the look of our Jeffrey, you know. He has a pleasant face. He hasn't been worn down by life yet. 'How old is he, Mikey?' Early thirties, I would say. Maybe thirty-three, or thirty-four. He has nice hair. He probably uses conditioner. 'You reckon?' Well, I don't know. I'm just guessing.
Jeff's not a financial shaman though. No way is he a veteran of the desert. I mean, his skin is too smooth. His eyes too bright. 'I thought shamans had bright eyes?' When the fire is burning, man. The fire of money, yes. But I'm talking about a natural brightness. The sort of brightness that only the innocent have.
Our Jeff hasn't suffered. He hasn't wandered in waste land, so lonely with a blood-red moon above him. 'Not many have.' Jeff hasn't known dark nights of the soul. He hasn't been driven half insane by the ghosts of the dead financiers. 'Well ...' Has he even heard your voice, Voice? Have you ever whispered in his ear? 'No. But that can be arranged, boss.' Don't bother!
No, no, no ... / We'll let Jeff join Eaton Vance. We'll let him manage investments and research credit. He doesn't need to know about the other side of finance.
...
Lunch? Luxury egg sandwich today. I can't really afford it. But you only live once, don't you?
Music? I’m listening to Prince, Sign 'O' the Times. It's very good. However, he wanted it to be a triple album. Prince is his own worst enemy sometimes.
Pub tomorrow? Down by the river? Maybe. It all depends on the weather, and my migraines. / Some idiots keep nicking my favourite table. I mean, fucking reserving it - like that's an acceptable thing to do in a pub. I might have a word with Cromwell's ghost. 'He'll scare them off!' Yeah, that's what I'm thinking, Voice.
