I was sitting under the shade of a beech tree in a French garden this morning having my first glass of the day (I have found a small glass of dessert wine at 11 circumvents the "no alcohol shall pass my lips before noon" watershed) and having one of those douceur de vivre in la France profonde moments when I got to wondering why it is that I toil in the City at all?
Why should I have to rise at stupid oclock, endure the drudgery of a suburban commute, suffer all manner of degradation at my post and then still be considered one of Britains Most Wanted by most of the population, when all I want to do is sit under
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