Oliver sighs as he slicks back his hair with a double handful of Crew, slips on his Rolex and pulls on his chinos. Contemplating the meaning of life, he wonders if he’ll let that two-bed on Fulham Road today.
His signet ring catches the light as he gathers the details of a Parson’s Green buy-to-let, sliding them into his Montblanc briefcase. Hitting the pavement, he regrets partying until 5am with that blonde from Raffles; yet another deal he failed to seal. He stops for a coffee at Paul. The waitress definitely has a thing for him. He’s still got it. He pities his boss with the wife and kids. Oliver’s fooled them yet again, reeling off an account of a night in watching Game of Thrones. No one’s noticed his hangover shakes.
He borrows the office Audi to show a Goldmans guy a Chelsea bachelor pad he’s not at all jealous of. He really feels for him, working all hours in a job he must hate.
Striding down the King’s Road, he barges past a robust excuse for a Four in the doorway of Partridges, and it dawns on him that he could, actually, be a real-life Superman. And no one, and nothing, must get in his way.
Back home that evening, mummy has made shepherd’s pie, but she hasn’t used enough potato. Oliver is pissed off. FFS. He’s certain she did it to annoy him and now he’s spilt mince on his Turnbull and Asser shirt.
He calls Ant to rile him up for a night out at Sumosan – it’d be amazing, so much gash on a Tuesday dude. He reckons that girl in marketing will be there as well, but Ant declines. What a dickhead. Settling in to his White Company sheets and locking his bedroom door, he searches his recent Pornhub history. He’s still, definitely, the man.
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