things move around

The two tax guys in the windowless office opposite me have been doing my head in as usual. The elder tax guy, the one with the mane of ermine, leans back in his chair and exhales softly, at least I presume he does, since he is just out of my sight behind the partition. Maintaining what for him is a posture of unusual langour, he meditates on the day ahead and its likely outcomes; there are so many. Will he end the day richer or poorer? More or less composed? Perhaps he’ll make a new friend or unmake an old one. Often, it’s true, nothing will happen, and on these days one outcome is likelier than any other: he will be a day older.

His colleague, or apprentice, or whatever the terminology is, the one I tihnk is called Mike, sips daintily from his gargantuan flask of coffee. It’s 10:30 AM and therefore the coffee is what passes for fresh, but the same can’t be said of Mike, near-inert, jaundiced, sitting in his chair, a pale greasy streak on the brown paper bag that is this morning.