The Perfectionist

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The invitation dropped on the doormat of The Laurelsalong with a bank statement and a Guide Dogs for the Blind appeal. It was in a cream-coloured envelope made from thick, expensive-looking paper. Duncan left it to open after the others. His custom was to leave the most promising letters while he worked steadily through the others, using a paper knife that cut the envelopes tidily. Eventually he took out a gold-edged card with his name inscribed in the centre in fine italic script. It read:

The most perfect club in the world

has the good sense to invite

Mr. Duncan Driffield

a proven perfectionist

to be an honoured guest at its biannual dinner

Friday, January 31st, 7:30 for 8pm

Contact will be made later

He was wary. This could be an elaborate marketing ploy. In the past he’d been invited-by motor dealers and furniture retailers-to parties that had turned out to be sales pitches, nothing more. Just because no product or company was mentioned, he wasn’t going to be taken in. He read the invitation through several times. It has to be said, he liked the designation "a proven perfectionist." Couldn’t fault their research. He was a Virgo-orderly, a striver for perfection. To see this written down as if he’d already achieved the ideal was especially pleasing. And to see his name in such elegant script was another fine touch.

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