The obligation

Too many people in the office – loud voices, powerful, forceful, agressive, in closing mode. Niceties have been and gone and now it’s about the money. "I done my thing Mr. Big Shot, now you do yours and rent the goddamn place for the price I’ve spent hours negotiating towarrs with an unreasonsble, reluctant, and unpleasant owner (and, yes, I did arrange the second bed, replacement of the carpet in the hall, additional lamp in the living room, repainting of the front door and you may keep a small dog)."

It’s the start of another month and thrills and spills of the short, little February are gone in the ether. It’s about the here the now and the day of reckoning that looms small, but increasingly larger, when somewhere close to the end of March (or earlier if he gets to it) the sales manager – Klaas – confronts the consultants with the output of their endeavors. And when Klaas confronts them his jolly, sociable, verging on matey demeanor develops a gritty edge – a reminder that although drinking a beer with them on Friday’s is just great, they still need to make their numbers.

Outside, the hum of traffic is peppered with flashes of white light from the secret camera placed by the traffic cops. The glare from the flare makes me squint as, even after nearly two years, I wobble on the brink of epilepsy as my retina burns away with each snap of their hidden lens. The speed sensor triggers the photo only when there is a speeding offence in progress. I asked recently how often the device goes off: 200 times an hour. The average speeding fine is around Euro 45 – nice business.

Klaas’s impressive girth reminds me of the obligation I have to my body to go to the gym. I’m leaving.