A corned-beef and pickles chap

Sitting lightly in the palm of his hand, the briefcase added to his feeling of self-worth. He could smell the Dubbin that he had scraped into its creases the previous night before the hearth, with Bach’s 3rd ‘cello suite oozing out of the gramophone. He felt blessed by the early morning starts: his chance to catch the whiff of a new day. He knew that inside his briefcase, tucked into a pocket, was his lunch of corned beef and pickles on country-grain. Neatly wrapped in grease-proof paper, and slipped into a plain brown paper bag. He always ate early, while sipping a mug of steaming Ceylon black, going over the figures, yet again, comparing Mr Simpson’s ledger with his own mechanised version, searching for the discrepancy.