George straightened his tie. It felt good to be wearing it again, to be constrained and contained by such a simple item of clothing. His tie said I’m serious, I’m professional, I’m one of you. He liked the feel of the knot against his adam’s apple when he looked down to rearrange his possessions on his desk, his new fountain pen, his blackberry, his welcome back card from the receptionists. He pretended not to see the space where the photo had been, next to his monitor. At the end of the day, 12 long and blissfully stressful hours later, George made his way home on the tube, one of many suits, an anonymous soldier in an army of professionals.
At home George reluctantly loosened his tie and all the parts of him that had been being held together broke down and apart. He made himself some instant mashed potato and ketchup and took the bowl upstairs and into bed with him. Before he fell asleep, still after all this time only occupying his side of the bed, he looked across at his suit hung up beautifully and at his selection of ties. He chose which one he would wear tomorrow, which one he would use to tie himself back together.
[With apologies to the hugely talented Michael Sheen from whom I stole the image of still sleeping in your half of the bed]