before to leave no cause for complaint. He would even return to the office holding the side of his mouth and talking oddly. His chances of getting this post must be slim: there would be hundreds of keen applicants, many better qualified than he was. Best to treat it as a rehearsal for the next opportunity that came up. Edward was suddenly determined to move from his City desk, and as soon as possible.
On any objective assessment his lack of confidence was well founded. He had not read history or politics or sociology or any related subject at college, but law. At that time, a career at the bar had seemed glamorous and held out the prospects of both intellectual stimulus and financial reward. But somehow he had drifted into the commercial side and found himself appearing in civil cases in which one large corporation was suing another for an exorbitant sum. His days had revolved around the small print of contracts that nobody else ever read. Success meant a million-pound invoice presented to the losers, or perhaps to both. Increasingly he had to manufacture an interest in his clients’ doings and the outcome of cases. It did not help that, with only half his mind engaged, he was exceptional at it. Regular clients (and some were frequent litigants) demanded his services. The bonuses were handsome. The senior partner slapped him on the back at the Christmas party. His team was responsible for a significant chunk of the firm’s billing. His salary reflected his usefulness: he had more money than a single man with few outside interests could easily spend. But the work was boring beyond endurance
Then, one idle morning, as he had flicked through the Guardian adverts without knowing quite why, he found himself envying those who would apply. The problem with his current post, he had concluded slowly, was that he was doing nothing worthwhile, and it wasn’t as if his day-to-day satisfaction could be improved upon by shifting to another practice, or trying to teach. He hated being in the legal profession: it was little more than a conspiracy to make money out of fools. He ached inside.
Black Dog loomed briefly. How well Winston Churchill had named it, that trough of depression that lurched like a slavering canine ready to bite and bounded up on him unawares. Edward had realised ages ago that he didn’t need to be in a mess to feel unhappy. At certain times, like Churchill, he could feel pain even when pain was absent. But whenever he was stressed, even though the outcome might be much desired, Black Dog would pad silently behind him. Like now. ‘I am your closest friend,’ Black Dog would pant, its dank flanks heaving. ‘I am here to help you. When you want to feel sorry for yourself, come walk beside me. I am always here. I will not hurt you. I am better than being alone with your fears.’
But the creature came from depths that could only be visited by abandoning any vestige of normality or balance. Given too much leeway it would seize him in its jaws and drag him down. Edward Porter knew exactly how that could happen and how horrible it felt. Black Dog had bitten him several times already in his thirty years. The temptation to court the creature had to be kept at arm’s length. It was too easy to give in and lose one’s sense of reality.
Edward sighed, and tried again to make neat notes, to keep his mind on the essentials that might just help him win this new job. What questions might be asked, and how might he respond? The first, obvious one was: what relevant experience had he? None at all, but this might be turned to advantage, surely. He had never served in opposition; he had no baggage. His experience was entirelypractical, in the business world, which arguably would be useful to an administration most of whose minions had never handled a balance sheet. He wanted to work, not in politics as such, but with someone in power. He had no dogma to offer, and would rely on the best outcomes available. If that meant he
On any objective assessment his lack of confidence was well founded. He had not read history or politics or sociology or any related subject at college, but law. At that time, a career at the bar had seemed glamorous and held out the prospects of both intellectual stimulus and financial reward. But somehow he had drifted into the commercial side and found himself appearing in civil cases in which one large corporation was suing another for an exorbitant sum. His days had revolved around the small print of contracts that nobody else ever read. Success meant a million-pound invoice presented to the losers, or perhaps to both. Increasingly he had to manufacture an interest in his clients’ doings and the outcome of cases. It did not help that, with only half his mind engaged, he was exceptional at it. Regular clients (and some were frequent litigants) demanded his services. The bonuses were handsome. The senior partner slapped him on the back at the Christmas party. His team was responsible for a significant chunk of the firm’s billing. His salary reflected his usefulness: he had more money than a single man with few outside interests could easily spend. But the work was boring beyond endurance
Then, one idle morning, as he had flicked through the Guardian adverts without knowing quite why, he found himself envying those who would apply. The problem with his current post, he had concluded slowly, was that he was doing nothing worthwhile, and it wasn’t as if his day-to-day satisfaction could be improved upon by shifting to another practice, or trying to teach. He hated being in the legal profession: it was little more than a conspiracy to make money out of fools. He ached inside.
Black Dog loomed briefly. How well Winston Churchill had named it, that trough of depression that lurched like a slavering canine ready to bite and bounded up on him unawares. Edward had realised ages ago that he didn’t need to be in a mess to feel unhappy. At certain times, like Churchill, he could feel pain even when pain was absent. But whenever he was stressed, even though the outcome might be much desired, Black Dog would pad silently behind him. Like now. ‘I am your closest friend,’ Black Dog would pant, its dank flanks heaving. ‘I am here to help you. When you want to feel sorry for yourself, come walk beside me. I am always here. I will not hurt you. I am better than being alone with your fears.’
But the creature came from depths that could only be visited by abandoning any vestige of normality or balance. Given too much leeway it would seize him in its jaws and drag him down. Edward Porter knew exactly how that could happen and how horrible it felt. Black Dog had bitten him several times already in his thirty years. The temptation to court the creature had to be kept at arm’s length. It was too easy to give in and lose one’s sense of reality.
Edward sighed, and tried again to make neat notes, to keep his mind on the essentials that might just help him win this new job. What questions might be asked, and how might he respond? The first, obvious one was: what relevant experience had he? None at all, but this might be turned to advantage, surely. He had never served in opposition; he had no baggage. His experience was entirelypractical, in the business world, which arguably would be useful to an administration most of whose minions had never handled a balance sheet. He wanted to work, not in politics as such, but with someone in power. He had no dogma to offer, and would rely on the best outcomes available. If that meant he
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