fairytales and frappuccions

“And he nodded his approval and smiled appreciatively and stared at the empty looms. He would not, he could not, admit he saw nothing, when his two ministers had praised the material so highly.”

The Emperors’ New Clothes

Early Monday morning, The Emperor sat on the top floor of Café Nero in Bayswater looking out onto the busy crowds below him, focusing on nothing particular. The Emperor was remembering another Monday 18 years ago. This was the day when he realised he was too square to fit into his circle of friends, the day he became very rich and they continued to remain comfortable, the day his tireless 18 hour shifts paid off and he was willingly propelled into one of the most powerful positions in the City. This was the day he would lose most human interaction with his friends, with the exception, years later of being one of their numerous facebook contacts who would be once again accepted and then forgotten.

Now, after having “made it” he was surrounded by accomplices and business partners, colleagues and advisors – all of whom knew his work and even his bank balance intimately, but none who could recount his personal qualities on their fingers. It’s not that he was disliked; it’s just that over the years he had become unknown. His presence was acknowledged so long as his work productivity and income remained high, when that dropped people forgot him- even his features, smells and habits, nothing about him was distinct. The Emperors’ cultivated normality had made him invisible.

“You’re married to your work” she had written one Monday in the days before email, and then she left to pursue her own addictions. Hearts, trust and liquor glasses; these were the broken fragments of the Emperors’ past. And folding that tear and spirit stained letter into the inside slit of his leather case, (where it remained to this day) he resolved to go back to the office more dedicated than ever- love was just too much hard work.  He recalled how she told him she loved his hands, which were soft and broad on account of his privileged childhood. He looked at them now, still pink and wide and soft. But in the last couple of years patted veins had fast started to appear on the back. She wasn’t around to see them now. However, the Emperor knew his grip was still strong. He could still reach for his dreams, but he noticed how his fingers now trembled, he could never hold onto what he grabbed long enough without shaking. So he usually let go before it began to hurt him.

He put down his cocoa mug and looking around, he noticed the flyers which were stained with coffee rims and left in unkempt piles on the tables and counters. They invited him to attend a salsa themed basement club, or join a gym membership with 30% off-what other incentive did he need to start melting away his belly fat it asked? Another questioned if he had recently thought about the existence of God, because if not, an upcoming “street artist” would gladly think for him and he could purchase these works on creation for the same as the annual expenditure of the average British family. However, the one that caught his eye talked about plans to mobilise in protest of the situation in Tibet, against the Olympic torch on its travels through Europe. He remembered the contentious journey this weekend which the flame had had through London; at one point being forced to mount the bus like any lay passenger in order to continue the journey from Fleet Street to St Pauls, since the protesters became too numerous and unruly. Knowing the Mayors’ previous controversial political stances, (for example charging Bush’s entourage congestion charge for their vehicles during official state visits) the Emperor amused himself with the idea of the torch bearer having to use an oyster card before being allowed on for the bus ride. He paused at this moment and realised that it was a great convenience that he himself never had to use the bus as he was provided with a chauffeur. The torch then had its path lit by fluorescent jackets which held back angry, passionate and bored people all the way to Number 10.

The flyer really was very impressive, visually impacting and solid production quality. The Emperor pressed it between his thumbs and moved it so the glossy leaflet reflected the light from the sun, which was fast rising from the east. He wondered if the same printing company was used by the pro-China supporters who waved placards and distributed just as impressive publications calling for support of “one China” along the routes. Certainly, he would suggest this printing company to members of the London Olympic committee for production of their promotional material when he met with them later on this week. He tucked this flyer into his work case, noting to himself that he would ask his assistant to research where this flyer was produced when he got into the office. As he walked out of the café checking his Blackberry for the days’ schedule the faux-graffitied slogan of the leaflet peeped from the leather fold inviting readers to “Be part of the change on Monday in Paris” The Emperor had missed this during his examination of the leaflet. Many Mondays ago he had already locked himself in when he began to feel left out.