Malusi angrily crumpled up the greeting card and threw it at his masseuse. She ducked, and the paper ball bounced off the far wall, ricocheted off a sculpture of three Indian elephants dancing in a circle around a pile of rupees, rebounded off his Sahara computer, knocked over a framed picture of himself looking at a framed picture of himself, and came to rest on top of the complimentary paper shredder he’d been sent by the Bank of Baroda.
“Bad news?” she asked.
He dropped his face into his hands.
“It's the fucking president,” he sighed. “Every morning he sends me a card that says ‘Thinking of you during this difficult time’ and he signs it with the smiley-face.”
“Shame, that’s sweet.”
“It’s abuse!” cried Malusi. “He’s torturing me! Jesus, why is my collar so tight? Why is it so hot in here? Jesus.”
Read Tom Eaton's full column in Times Select
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