After burning an hour or two in the bar, the fresh air was quite refreshing. A clear and crisp day left the evening air quite chilly as the sun began to dip behind the towering structures of london's central business hubs.
Kicking out time at the office began to arrive as you do, a stream of suits leaving the surrounding buildings. They swarmed around the bus stops and streamed into the nearby restaraunts like some homogenous mass. Watching the saririmen brought a certain feeling of pity, or was it disgust? To the surface. You spot a slightly nicer suit amongst the crush, heading towards the underground, his suit was clearly darker, better material and screamed "middle management" at you.
As you close the distance, the roar of a throaty V8 reverberated down the street, echoing in the pristine glass-and-steel lined street. Clearly the real-money men of the operation drove into town. Swanky bastards.
The westwind turbo's tires screeched to a halt as the lights turned to red outside GGHQ.
Your middle manager headed down to the westbound platform, headed for the hammersmith line