The scenes would be simple ones. The story, as always, would not be new. The furnishings bureaucratic, the light filled with dust and the colours reflective of the civil service. When the surprisingly young and beautiful Dr Buttery entered from the door in the far right corner, he stood a while in the middle of his office and looked about him. He crossed through the light from his window over to his desk, in the left of the room, and placed his tea next to his phone on a small pile of books. He picked up the phone and made an arrangement.
Thomas Buttery has never been a person who could compromise. He could not compromise about some things as juvenile as the desire to sleep in the loft and as profound as his later desire to read philosophy and thus qualify himself exclusively for a life of books and nothing else. And, in so doing, for a certain type of, parentally predicted, misery. It would, however, be a mistake to see Thomas Buttery as someone obtusely stubborn. He was not indiscriminate or random about the issues which were beyond compromise. There were simply a few things about which he could not find himself relenting if there happened to be a conflict of interests or differing positions of sway. But, naturally, he had reasons and arguments to support his position. Far be it from Thomas Buttery to expect, based merely on the fact that he knows that he is right, someone else to see his point of view or to accept his claims. And far be it from Thomas Buttery to accept another’s position, if no good reason is available. Even if he did happen to agree. This agreement could surely be nothing more than accidental. And accidents are not reasons for capitulating.
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