Amos liked to frequent this part of the City during his lunch hour. It was called “the Bank” and all the smart looking men and women busied through this place, many of them holding slim, attractive executive valises. As he stood at the Tube exit, Amos gingerly wiggled his toes in his stylish business slip-ons: they were mock Italian, in soft black leatherette. Nobody could tell him apart from the young, slick intelligenci who filed past, as long as he kept his back pressed to the station wall to hide the unfortunate stain on the tails of his dinner jacket.
His secret hope was that the rain would hold off and he wouldn’t have to move position.
