There's a chap who works in my office who habitually looks under so much pressure that the expression on his face alone is enough to give me fantom shooting pains up my arms. He's very ruddy of jowl too and some 14 stones overweight.
His job requires a lot of travel, and he's never without his trusty Samsonite wheeled suitcase by his side, least he be sent to South Georgia on business at a moment's notice. It's like a faithful hound, this case. It's even stands guard when he's at the urinal in the executive washroom. I dread the day I see him without it, for fear it might have been run over or put down by the council for having attacked a Lollipop Lady, and he bursts into tears telling me.
The strange thing is that despite all the effing-about he's forced to do, and the manifest damage this is dishing out to his chassis and psychological well-being, he really appears to enjoy his job. It just serves to illustrate the truth of the old adage that pain and pleasure are but two sides of the same coin.
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