It’s 2:30 a.m., I am up eating strawberry jam on toast with a cup of hot spiced tea and reading. Perhaps I stepped out of a British nursery rhyme and am still quite asleep in my bed …
The only thing that would make this better is if it were Christmas, snowing outside, the fireplace were crackling, and I was reviewing the profits from the operating company in my Brooks Brothers bathrobe with red velvet slippers.
Maybe I really was a 19th century British financier that got reincarnated. Between this and my affinity for bespoke waistcoats, the harpsichord, witty conversation, dividends, and leather bound books, something is certainly afoot.
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