A RELAXED, fashionable office of high-earning professionals kept at a breezy 21 degrees is being watched jealously from the pavement outside.
The young, attractive people in stylish business attire, thought to be lawyers or in media, are unhurriedly going about their work of earning six figures without a single bead of sweat.
Passer-by Will McKay said: “Look at those bastards. Meanwhile you could put your arm down my trousers and it would come back wet up to the elbow.
“They’re putting together paperwork for the Bilston merger or whatever the f**k while zephyrs of chill air waft around them, barely stirring their perfect hair, while I’m out here sweating like a bastard on my way to slave away in a converted attic without even a through draught.
“After which I’ll swelter home, on a train so packed my flesh will stick to four other people, for an evening in my flat where all the heat from the whole building collects to torture me and laugh at my pathetic fan. I hate them and their air con. I want to be them.”
Helen Archer said: “Can they even see me? If they glanced through their tinted windows, would they even recognise the fat, perspiring splodge on the pavement as human? Or, with no more than a gesture, would they call for me to be hosed away?”
Air-conditioned human Francesca Johnson said: “Mm, I could really use a piping hot espresso. Also can we close the blinds?”
