Please take me to an asylum. I have just seen an unspeakable horror.
Imagine walking into work at your offices which were designed by an architect who tried to reinvent the colour blue so it would fit in with his “design language”. You casually slide the cuff of your Ermenegildo Zegna suit up so you can check the time on your Baume Et Mercier timepiece (not watch). You are the head designer for Bentley and have just finished having breakfast with the organiser of The Americas Cup.
You buzz for some espresso which is brought in by your Swedish-Japanese PA and part-time lover. The office is silent and the even glow from the drinks cabinet gives off a faint hue of blue from the Bombay Sapphire you’d left out after a design meeting with a man who makes the best holsters in Europe, and who will now be adding his expertise to leather finishes on Bentleys. Your brushed aluminium Mac awakens as the feathered steps of Britt Mayota (for that his her name) whisper over the expensive carpet. You open your e-mail:
