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Standing on the damp concrete pavement, between a particularly menacing lump of chewing gum and an oil swirled puddle, Dieter, umbrella clutched under his arm and spectacles slipping down his reddening nose, looked up at the totemic grey building, paused and let out a sigh; expecting a wave of nostalgic thoughts that weren’t forthcoming, he adjusted his grip on the worn brown leather briefcase in his right hand and stepped his left foot forward, rocking on the balls of his feet as a bicycle, bell ringing in the way that feels so much more inconsiderate in the early hours of the morning than any other time of day, rushed past him in a blur – sentimentality didn’t come easily to Dieter and by any normal person’s standards he was positively detached but the motion of the cyclist did seem to reflect the last thirty years he had spent day in day out in this building – the momentary lapse of concentration, which he put down to lack of sleep, soon passed as he sighed again, took the briefcase from his right hand to his left, stepped forward and pushed the large glass doors open and strode into the reassuring white walled space – he liked it at this time of day, before all the others arrived, just him and the only evidence of his long career: the framed colourful works that lined the walls, appreciated more by himself than all the other younger designers who would soon be wishing him a happy retirement....

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