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by Laird Long Book Opening: I’m a Chartered Accountant-in-training with a head full of numbers and a fist full of dynamite. I make the numbers crunch, and, baby, if they don’t, I become the biggest liability on the balance sheet of your life.
It was my last year of University, and my dream of becoming a Chartered Accountant – the dream of every red-blooded, bespectacled jarhead – was inching toward reality. First, though, I had to fight through the hellacious rounds of interviews being conducted by the public accounting firms recruiting on campus. You had to be hired by one of them, and one is all I had an interview with. It was do or die, third and long (in the CFL), D-Day, the thin, red line holding their ground against the chanting, spear-wielding hordes of Zulu warriors pouring over the grassy knolls at Rorke’s Drift; it was ... Spud mouthing off.
“Hey, Clint, good luck to youse, eh,” he said, in Canada’s third, unofficial language. |
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