A change of scenery, but little else
Your humble columnist is hardly the typical follower of #metoo. I’m an aging colonial with a drinking habit, a Marco Polo Diamond card, and a storied career in the financial markets. But even I occasionally brace at the nonchalant dismissal of the opposite sex.
One evening last month I decided it was time to make a change. I had spent too much of my life getting embarrassingly drunk at the same old bar. Now, I promised myself, there would be a new me: I would get embarrassingly drunk at a new bar. Why not embrace all the variety life has to offer?
I picked a suitably glitzy place and doffed my proverbial cap as a cadre of bankers from a storied Wall Street firm descended on the premises. They were out celebrating a successful capital markets deal.
“Hold this,” he said, plonking his leather satchel into the poor girl’s arms as if she was some kind of coathanger. He fished out his phone, left the bag on her arms and promptly ordered her to bring the bag to the cloakroom and hang on to the tag for the duration of the evening.
“I need a drink,” I heard the poor girl mutter.
Me too, my dear. Me too.