Lost.

Blank.

Space.

A white canvas unadorned by the imprint residues of tapped keys.

He searched for inspiration; he reflected. What did I write for last week’s column?

He shared the back page of The Financial Times’ weekend edition: “Last Word” it blazed.

His colleague’s image occupied prime real estate space on the upper right corner of the page. Tyler Brûlé. That Idiot.

It would be typical of Tyler Brûlé - the cheek of the accents! the unmerited, nouveau riche “û” and the undeserving “é” – for Brûlé to write about the import of a Club Sandwich, or irrelevancies, about anything he particularly knew nothing about.

Fool.

The fingers of his left hand shifted. The keys moved, as if orchestrated by an invisible hand.

The writing was not painful today. He wrote from the heart; he was about to enjoy the irony.

Harry saved the file in the “Current FT Assignments” folder, open his email application; a short cover note, several clicks to attach the file, and he signed off with his customary “/h”.

His work was done, and it would appear, maybe the next week, next month, in the usual place. It would engage with “the evil of banality”. Next to Tyler Brûlé.