Leader.

The man sits eating his pizza with his computer on a stand and at perfect eye level. The cleaner is hoovering around him but he doesn’t care, all snug and warm inside as the August rain keeps falling. He’s been in the creative space all day and has enjoyed his time. He’s been productive and replied to all of his emails promptly, strategised the next six months and had a riveting discussion with a fellow creative on how to maximize profits whilst presenting oneself as ethically minded. Ah, he was so enthralled by the man’s style and enthusiasm. The way he sat on the corner of his desk, legs spread, spewing out hands and confidence, drawing everyone in to his conversation. A real brightest and best kind of guy. Exactly why he paid 400 for the privilege of the day here, here in this creative space, so he could engage himself with the zeitgeist and spark ideas amidst like-minded individuals. And to look at the girls too of course. He has dripped cheese onto his chin and looks around hoping not to have embarrassed himself. Nobody else is there. He goes to check his emails and realises he forgot to ping off some notes on the latest cut, something about the VO and how maybe we should revamp the narrative. He thinks it’s time to go back to the drawing board. Time to brainstorm. Pens, notepads, blue tack on walls, big posters. Let’s go back to the start, we need more pick-ups done, we need to get a sense of place, people, their essence. All we can fit in a 40 minute programme with three weeks to deadline. He puts this all in his notes and starts writing an email to the team detailing his wishes. He sends and then starts to watch his show. His show. His name at the end of the credits. The Big Boss. He imagines his team at HQ  have all left for the day which annoys him for their lack of dedication. They can pick up his train of thought on Monday because he is on a roll now. How, he wonders, can they possibly disconnect from this, THIS at its most critical juncture. He won’t stop though, lucky they have him, he won’t stop for anything, family or friends. He wonders too when everyone in the creative space also left. He was probably too in the zone so missed them. He won’t be going anywhere. He paid for the privilege out of his own pocket and waited two months on the waiting list to get his desk for the day, to drink the lemon and ginger water placed in carafes on each desk, constantly replenished. To enjoy the super foods on offer, the sheep’s placenta, delightful. So, the twenty four hours he paid for; he is here for. Draining and squeezing all the ambiance has too offer. He wishes he could book it for a week, a month, a creative pilgrimage, time to contemplate, to consider, to think, imagine the possibilities! What heights he could reach, what depths he could scour. He’d win an Emmy definitely as a result. Be BAFTA recognised too. Think he’ll look into doing that, maybe sell the car. He doesn’t need it anyway, time to get back on the Brompton, it will be good to get a sweat on each morning, release the shit, walk into the office and show the underlings how it is done, maybe they could start a cycle club. Think they were doing that in LA.