Shadow

I am to be shadowed all week by a new boy. He is perfectly pleasant, if rather too chubby to be any credible shadow of mine. He doesn't quite roll over the arms of his chair, but he definitely gives the lift mechanism pause for thought whenever he chooses to activate it -- which he does, perhaps out of nerves, rather too regularly.

James (that is his real name, but then there are plenty of Jameses in private banking) is undoubtedly going to be successful in his chosen career. He has everything going for him. His mother is in some vague way aristocratic. His father has money. He himself was educated at Harrow -- something which he may be called upon to conceal, but only infrequently -- and then at Cirencester, where he didn't quite complete some kind of farming diploma. He is difficult to draw on the subject, and I suspect he may have harmlessly misled our recruitment team at some stage in the last few months. No matter. As I said, he is perfect for this job. He has the look of a man intelligent enough to add up but not so smart he might skim off your portfolio. His eyes are bright blue, his lips girlishly full, his voice a hesitant and friendly drawl.

He's going to be a nuisance to me, but less so than most of his City-bound peer group would be. There is no piercing intellect or naked ambition to trouble me in gentle James.