Finding myself in deodorant-sniffing proximity to a multi-millionaire, I am dazzled by the crisp spotlessness of one who pays another to do his laundry; the healthy tan, too, obviously; the celestially-synchronized wristwatch and the gleaming handmade shoes that you know are handmade because the cobbler's fingerprints are still visible when the toecaps catch the light.
Although he is oily beyond the dreams of Texan oilmen, there is no trace of oil about his straight-backed person. No doubt it has all been ritually scraped off with a strigil by some hired hand.
By comparison, I am a stooping and crumpled plebeian whose armpits drip with the rancid juices of his ignoble labors. Any expert eye can see my formerly white collar is already starting to go blue around the neck.
But here I am, basking in the radiance of this Sun King, if only briefly so blessed, while he tours my office and decides whether or not to dispense his bounty.
Perhaps I should surreptitiously touch the hem of his garment for luck as he lingers by my desk? After all, if we are returning to a medieval master-serf based business model then we might as well go the whole hog.
