You sent him the presentation at 4am, just when you sent it to the printers, who got it done by 6am - just in time to head with the books to your flat, shower and head to the airport. Your eyes begin to twitch as the effect of the third cup of extra strong black coffee of the morning begins to wane. You feel that (too good to be true) feeling as you ease back in the leather chair and begin to drift to sleep. Ah, bliss.
Your slumber is interrupted by Dirk, who leans over to your chair and taps you on the shoulder.
"Zhet ish a wery goot book you have prepared. Very nish chartsh. But you sheem to have a problem witsh your email. I only resheived it early thish morning. You musht get IT to fix it when you get back to the offish."
No shit sherlock. You don't say I've got a problem. Thee reason you got the email at four AM is because you sent it to him at four AM. Schmuck. What planet does this guy live on?
Ok. He means well, but come on. What third tier commercial bank did the firm pick this guy out of? Does he really not know how i-banking works? You look at him trying to spot clues giving away his lower position in the food chain even though he is an MD. You look for the usual giveaways. Shoes - buffed and finely made. No joy there. Hands. Clean, well manicured and never carried anything heavier than a ten page pitchnook. Tie. Perfectly matching his suit. Hermes. No joy here. Shirt. Crisp, tailored, cufflinks and no pocket. He even has the extra taste to not have those ridiculously tacky monograms all the nouveau riche bankers pride themselves on. Also, cufflinks are hand made and tasteful. No luck there. Everything about this hit smells like money. Old money at it. He does not behave like a rodeo from Texas wearing a Hermes tie and good suit. This guy is actually more impressive than Rupert. For one thing, he doesn't wear socks with holes. Granted, he speaks funny, but then again, so does Rupert.
You have a brief moment of panic as you see this non i-banker exhibiting all the attributes of a BSD and then some. Are you in the wrong job? Should you begin speaking with a funny accent and ask to be relocated to Amsterdam? You seem relieved to notice that the panic quickly subsides and is replaced by the peaceful lull of sleep, as you sink into the leather chair.
The CEO walks in his army of cronies. Shit. Shitty shitty shit. Sleep will have to wait. You know that you need to be on standby to bail Rupert out when he inevitably fucks up presenting. You cheer yourself up by the fact that you really see indispensable to the firm, whilst learning from some of the best minds in the business.