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Hope all goes well. “Notice something?” whispered Mara, as the sun slowly rose, lighting our room. “Yeah,” I replied, my first word of the day, in a tone at once happy, sad and nostalgic. “He’s not here.” You see for years now, like clock work, Osama bin Charlie, our youngest little terrorist, infiltrated our bed in a ritual pre-dawn raid. We’d hear his little feet patter down the hall. But he’s g
Hope all goes well. “Know what I’m naming my new yacht?” he asked, not bothering to even give me a ‘Hi, how are you?’ So I gave it my best guess: The Schmuck. “Nope, I’m naming it The Kuroda,” he said, giddy. Then carried on incessantly about how much he made in the wake of Kuroda’s first act as Bank of Japan governor. “Before the meeting I was literally throwing up in the toilet,” admitted one of
Hope all goes well. “Cyprus changed the game, it was Europe’s Northern Rock moment, it was pivotal, we now really know how committed they are to one another,” explained the CIO of the best performing macro fund in recent years. Then that Dutch guy with the unpronounceable name said Cyprus was a template. “It’s like telling your mother-in-law she’s fat — no matter how hard you try, you can ne
Hope all goes well. Spring Break in Santa Barbara. Loaded our kiddies into the Prius; Jackson packed Lacrosse sticks, Olivia her violin, Teddy his hamster Harriott. Osama bin Charlie smuggled his coveted collection of Darth Vader Lego guys. And Mara and I flashed a glance at one another, suppressing a joy beyond expression. As the jam-packed circus car pulled out the driveway. With Grandma at the
Hope all goes well. “How’s the weather there?” asked my buddy. So I explained spring arrived in Santa Barbara. You see, I planted an acorn and it just sprouted. “Good news mate, well, here in London my PM’s are all sun-bathing,” he continued. “The Yen move put sunshine in an otherwise grey sky.” But being both British and one of the City’s top CIO’s he’s not quite conditioned to bask in the rays.
Hope all goes well. “Sorry I’m late for our call amigo,” I said to my buddy. “Got caught up in the mountains after dark,” I continued. “Misjudged the light, and raced down as quick as I could, but you know what it’s like, trail-running in the dark can get pretty hairy.” No matter how well you know the terrain, you’re bumping into boulders, stumbling over sticks. Which of course he could appreciate
Hope all goes well. “Please don’t ask what I think,” sighed my buddy, atop his prodigious pile of paper. “Every single call I make is wrong.” Which of course is just as rare, and as valuable, as its inverse. “But tell me what you see,” he continued. And I explained it feels we’re entering the most exciting trading environment for years. Maybe a decade. “Why?” he asked, surprised. And truth is, I d
Hope all goes well. We breezed through Denver airport. Mara and I exchanging glances, in silent celebration, of how far we’ve come. You see, all four kids carried their backpacks. And walked on their own. They’re growing up. They’re real people. Curious creatures. Colorful personalities. And at security, a monochrome guard asked for my stack of tickets. Interrogating each of us in turn. And ended
Hope all goes well. “Happy V day baby,” I texted my Valentine, from Chicago O’Hare. Which ain’t exactly a pro move, in case you wondered. And to make matters worse, Mara read my note while packing our bags. You see, I’d left her on her own, back in Santa Barbara. To spend the Day of Love schlepping four kids and ski gear to the Rockies. Which is a scene that never found its way into Romeo and Juli