“From 30 feet away she looked like a lot of class. From 10 feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from 30 feet away.”
- Raymond Chandler.
To AC, with thanks.
I never met a central banker who didn’t respect a smack in the
chops, and Bernanke was no exception. ‘Helicopter Ben’ went down faster than a
two dollar hooker when the Navy’s in town. While he did his best to compose
himself, I took the opportunity to glance around his office. Much like the top
man at the Fed, it had seen better days. Glasses still half full of whiskey, a
scattering of unconscious dames almost artfully draped around the furniture,
sundry tobacco stains all littered the place. It was empty, other than a few EU
officials rifling through the customer safe while a gloomy Russian looked on. The
stench of a party that had gone on for far too long hung in the air like an
inappropriate comment at a christening. And I was in no mood for compromise. Pretty
soon I set to tidying ‘Helicopter Ben’s face with a crowbar. But in an instant
the door burst open. It was mad Uncle Vince and someone I only half recognised
from his mug shots in the popular press – ‘good time Carney’, a glamorous but rabid
Canuck in full-scale retreat from a domestic housing bust.
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