“Drinks in my office” says Roy.
It’s eleven a.m.
Clem and Harry have got there before me.
Along with the drinks, there’s an unexplained box.
As Clem fixes drinks, Roy opens the box.
Slowly, painstakingly, takes something out.
It’s a human pelvis.
“Each year on this day,” says Roy, bone aloft,
“we gather to honour a giant among men.”
He closes his eyes, chants something softly.
Harry and Clem help themselves to more drink.
Roy opens his eyes. His expression is blissful.
“What, ah… who…?” I ask.
“David Ogilvy,” says Roy. “The Father of Advertising.”
“Ah,” I say.
“Ever wanted something so badly,” asks Roy,
“you’d do whatever it took to get it?”
“No,” I say.
“Thought not,” says Roy.
Rostock 