Such exquisite agony

Oh, this is fucking wonderful. No, I mean it. This is the ultimate, absolute fucking classic, that bittersweet combo of the best and worst of all that can possibly happen in life.

I have tix for Covent Garden’s Mozart on Thursday, and I was all ready to invite TMBGITW* along. Today I heard a new client had an ‘Associate’s Evening’ on, and since I really like the new client (a group of consultants operating out of the West End) I really want to go to that too. Although I haven’t asked her yet, TMBGITW wins out: if she says yes, it’s hello Amadeus.

And then I discover tonight the client’s evening involves POOL.

Not the wet stuff – with a 24min 1500m, I’d hardly be scared of that. I mean the stuff involving green baize and eightballs. I’m no slouch at that either, but I’m not good as such (I just like the brand image of potting balls at midnight with a girl who’s got a dragon tattooed on her ass).

But I really, really like playing pool.

So, I can ask TMBGITW* for a date. Or I can go out with the new client and climb the percentage probability towards new business in Q4. Or, maybe I can ask TMBGIW* to the client’s evening and try to combine the two – but it could lead to disaster, since she’s an intelligent woman and would probably be headhunted by the client, which would lose me another client with certainty.

Forget Michelangelo arching his back below the Sistine ceiling: this is where the agony truly starts getting exquisite.

* Come on, surely you’ve guessed by now?

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