Hugh the Manager

Off I go to climb the ranks after night. Wearing a most fetching blue smart-casual shirt and polished but well-worn shoes (and pants, don't forget pants), I will saunter with hewn sophistication up to the relevant personal, raise my brow and unload my most responsible and trustworthy smile upon them. Instantly impressed and possibly flattered and charmed beyond belief, they will reach for the special form in a trance-like state and say in a quavering voice: "Sign here please." They will of course offer me a pen, but me, being the embodiment of the scout motto, will already have one in my left breast pocket. A few semi-legible scribbles later, I will find my preferred hand locked firmly (at my end) in a limp priest-like shake that is much favoured by the white-collar world and often called upon in times of trouble.

And then, my dear friends, I will spend half a day with boxes in my hand and the bottom of my recently purchased shirt in my pants, after which I will be rocketed to a less hands-on position behind a desk and void of responsibility. My newfound wealth will be invested wisely into technology up until the point where I can use it to manipulate time and hire my formally unemployed and unqualified and inexperienced self. After a day's delusion, I will, for no reason given, fire myself and inform me nastily that I will never work in this town again.