The HRD is now leaving the building
In the morning I wake up. I shave, I shower. I put on a nice suit and a nice shirt made to my size. I wear cuff links that match and cologne that I’m given.
My hair is cropped, my skin soft.
I travel to work on the 6.52 train with my Blackberry and my iPod. I catch the tube.
I go to my corner office where I have a lovely view of London. An Assistant. Respect (most of the time). A good career. A great career.
I make decisions, I sit in meetings. I influence. I lead.
On Wednesday morning at 11.20 I am getting on a plane. A plane to Nimes.
For the following two weeks I will be running in the hills of the Ardeche. I will be hiking up the biggest, swimming down the rivers, kayaking the white water.
I will be wearing shorts and t-shirts, a rucksack with my gear. I won’t have shaved, I will smell like a baboon’s underpants. I’ll be sun burnt and weathered. I’ll be battered and bruised.
For two weeks, I will be me. The person that I really am.
I’ll be back though. You can count on that.
The HRD is now leaving the building.