White Space
So I'm leaving - short contract - work, tonight, and the security guard and I, a fiftyish guy in uniform, get to talking about the book he's reading, The Sea Hawk by Rafael Sabatini.
"It's, right, yer really old fashioned language, yeah? Written about 1910, and it's a cracking, y'know, the story. It's great."
Yesterday, the female bus driver on the 189 bus on the way home was reading White Teeth (Zadie) while she waited for her bus slot. Meaningful, I thought, as most of the book happens on the 189 bus route.
I, on the other hand, haven't read a book in three weeks - or if I've started one, I've not got to finishing it - because my head is full of derivatives (don't even ask me about Monte Carlo), big company politics, spreadsheets and lists. Forget about writing: there's just no space.
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