Several years ago I had a customer who occasionally bought an expensive book. He was not a regular, but sometimes came by to buy something, I think to reward himself for business deals that had gone well.
He drove a flashy car, a Porsche that he was very proud of. He usually sprang out of it, wearing an Armani suit, an open white shirt and a gold chain around his fleshy, tanned neck.
One day he arrived unannounced - looking distraught.
“Something dreadful and disappointing has happened to me”, he moaned. “I need something to take my mind off it.”
I showed him several nice objects, and he finally took a 5-volume “Carl Freiherrn Hügels Kaschmir und das Reich der Siek …” He took it, not even bargaining about over the price.
He was really upset.
As I saw he was dying to tell someone, I cautiously asked about the reason for his agitated state of mind.
“You remember my girlfriend?”
I did, a breathtaking, slightly overweight blonde.
“She suffers from these dreadful migraines.”
“Poor girl, that is really terrible”, I commiserated.
“They take two or three days, and it’s horrible. So, we found that there is a migraine clinic near Karlsruhe (about 70 km from here) and that’s were I take her in my Porsche whenever the symptoms start. She usually stays the night, and I fetch her back when she feels better.”
I agreed that this was probably the best, and that I thought it was very kind of him.
“Yes,” he almost sobbed, “and now I’ve found out that she’s having an affair with the migraine doctor!”
I kept a straight face, packed his books into plastic bags, consoled him as best I could and then sent him on his miserable way.