Monday, 7 March 2011

Bob Diamond's bonus: a miserable £6.5 million

I am not in the mood for speaking to Bob Diamond today. He will only excite me, and I want to remain calm. I am checking my pulse. Everything seems to be in order. This is the life. I am pure. I am clean. There is silence. And the sun is shining.

Bob Diamond is the chief executive of Barclays. He used to be the boss of Barclays Capital. Then he went up in the world. He is a star in my sky. He was expecting £9.5 million. I think we all were. We all hoped he would get that much. I was hoping that half a million would trickle down into my outstretched hand.

I can wait. I have the patience of a saint. I know I will get mine. Mr Diamond is my friend. I speak of him as if he were a real person. He is someone we can believe in. It is either that or a fictional character. Which would you prefer?

Is there anything more miserable than £6.5 million? If Mr Diamond is suffering right now, I do not want to know. I am not heartless. But I have to protect myself. Pain is contagious. I am pure. I am clean. There is no despair. Winter has gone.

I am looking forward. I will play my guitar. Sterile. I would like to bite something. I will not. I would love to get my teeth into flesh. This is agony. I was addicted. I was [am?] ill. Can this be the cure? Or will I return to the days of mad passion?

Soft light through the curtains. They are drawn. Shadow of a pigeon. I wish I were a pigeon. That is the simple life. What do pigeons worry about? Do they need bonuses? Of course they do not. Control. Just a few crumbs. I want crumbs of love.

Here is the truth. I work harder than Bob Diamond. My work corrodes my soul. There is no reward. The only thing I have to look forward to is an early death. I could spend eternity with my Gillian, and it would just be two shadows. Where is the substance?

This is real, and I am not scared. You are more scared than I am.