Mr John Templeton
Middle aged man with goatee, pistachio jacket, collarless shirt, khaki trousers. Sits half asleep, smiling.
Middle manager at Mosstains who fancies himself part of the company's young, creative image. Not the kind of person you'd think works there, a good front man. His staff hate him. So do his two ex-wives.
What he is doing or thinking
He's feeling good, on an upswing. Last night he got drunk and sorry for himself. He rang the Samaritans. This acted as a lightning rod for his depression. After ringing, he walked out into the cold night and looked at the stars. It was like looking at eternity. So what if the people at work bypass him, or tell him in taxicabs that they'll fight him every inch of the way and he doesn't have an idea what they want to fight him about? He doesn't want to die, he's just not suited for the job. This mood of philosophical resignation still cushions him.
He gets off at Waterloo and there is a shout. Deborah Payne grabs hold of his arm. "John!" she says, "you don't need to die!"
He's still trying to figure out what this means when a black guy comes up and asks Deborah out. She looks stunned. Actually, John always thought he might ask Deborah out, if they ever got along.
"Come out with me instead," John says trying to twinkle like one of the Musketeers. Deborah holds out both hands: stop. Shaking her head and muttering she walks away.
And over John, the gloom descends again.
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