Monday makes for porridge reflexes and refried thoughts.

I’m the only one left in the office. Sometimes I
think ECD stands for Exhausted Crash Dummy. Emphasis on Dummy. (My team also
thinks it means Executive Collation Director. Nothing to do with creativity at

Today Adrian asked me why we felt
so guilty when we were running late for meetings, whereas we have clients who
make us wait for two hours and don’t even seem to feel any pangs of conscience.
I used to have clients who came in earlier than the agency. Invariably they were
company owners. The smaller fry, perhaps, are the ones who need to feel a little
more important by making others wait a little longer. Or it could be just
particular people, and nothing to do with who’s agency and who’s client, just
who’s conscious of time and who’s not. There’s always an explanation, naturally,
and the explanation always makes sense. It’s just that the explanation never
makes the ones who’re made to wait feel any less inferior, though the ones who
made them wait will at least feel

I’m just too tired to be

I want to feign an attack of
consumption. Then Victorian ladies in swagged skirts and frilled parasols will
descend on me with shrill cries of pity and force smelling salts under my nose,
and haul me off to take the waters in a secluded mountain retreat reserved for
old women of little humor.