Ten years ago, David Packman wrote a very short autobiographical story. Discovering it a decade later was like glimpsing himself through a way-back machine.
His old view in Hong Kong had its moments too. Causeway Bay. Cantonese fishermen scurrying around like ants between brightly coloured sampans as far as the eye could see. Then one day, a sampan explodes high into the sky, a kaleidoscope of red, orange and blue. The debris settles, simply leaving a black patch of sea amongst the colour, like a missing piece of jigsaw. And the only other discernible difference from Asher’s office peephole high in the sky? The ants seemed to move a little faster.
It was Monday, December 29, 2003, the first in that odd string of days leading to New Year’s Eve, where most of the office is empty and those left just wander the halls looking for someone to talk to about how boring their Christmas Day was and hopefully getting noticed by any senior managers still lurking (those not browning every inch of their regal visage in the holiday sun, minus, of course, the de rigueur white stripe where the mobile phone is held to the ear — a feature any self-respecting member of the C-suite should sport when returning from fairer climes.)
“What on Earth happens next?,” he said to no-one in particular.