"I'm going back to the hotel," I stated in the fifth bar, the one that looked like the others but different, the one that had the misfortune of welcoming us in at three in the morning. "I've got an interview in the morning."
"No you're not," Will indignantly slurred, "we've only just got here. I'm getting you a drink, and then you and I will work out the questions you've got to ask tomorrow."
"I'm going back to the hotel now; I can be either tired or hungover tomorrow, but I'm not going to be both. You should really come back too, given that I have the keys."
"You are staying here and drinking; the interview will be better if you're still drunk." Continue
It must be nice to work for Premier Performance Division's CEO, Tony Purnell. Despite the clear progress Jaguar Racing have made in the eighteen months that he has held the reins of the team, much of which can be laid at his feet, Purnell constantly demurs whenever he feels he is getting too much praise for the job of turning around the formerly chaotic team. "I do think we've done a good job over the last eighteen months," he admits from the other side of the table in the Jaguar motorhome, his fingers constantly fidgeting with a pen, "but don't forget it's not me that's doing this; it's the guys that are running the show, so the credit is theirs. I've just enabled it." In Formula One terms, Tony Purnell is the antithesis of Mike Gascoyne.
Anniversaries of death become more abstract the further away they get, and eventually it is only the ones that end in zero that get acknowledged. Perhaps it's easier on the living that it should be thus, that these reminders of our own mortality get tucked away for so long and only pulled out once a decade to allow us a brief period of reflection, to take the band aid off for a minute to poke at the scar below before covering it up again.
Ten years. Ten years is long enough to allow us to be living a completely different life, and maybe when these anniversaries come around we are really looking at who we once were. Continue