He likes to sit on a bench of an evening. He runs his hand along his flat stomach, fit from working out. It had been a good decision to open a beauty-to-go practice in London. Members of the disappearing middle class love it. The startup slaves with their multiple degrees and foreign languages, Dr. this and Dr. that in all sorts of disciplines, hiring themselves out in Open Spaces without proper employment contracts in order to share in the great, prosperous dream of the developer family. For the most part they earn barely five hundred pounds a month, but on the other hand there’s a refrigerator in Open Spaces with energy drinks and energy bars, a foosball table in the lounge, and you can speak informally to the bosses. The bosses are all men. Startup firms that take money off people who barely have any money left, by delivering diapers to them daily, dispatching cleaning slaves, dispatching old ladies who cook simple, good-hearted dishes, desperate pensioners who are living beneath the poverty line and can be had for any old shit, delivering socks or gluten-free food daily. That’s the stuff they develop. Ridiculous platforms for a ridiculous life.