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Cayman Islands rum cake: Difference between revisions
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Now financiers are partial to absurd boondoggles: [[gardening leave]]; [[corporate entertainment]]; [[Business day convention|conferences in exotic locales]] — but even they have limits and you, sir, are not swanning off to the Caribbean just to “check the place out”. Not even for the good of [[Firm - FCA Rulebook Term|the Firm]]<ref>See what I did there?</ref>. | Now financiers are partial to absurd boondoggles: [[gardening leave]]; [[corporate entertainment]]; [[Business day convention|conferences in exotic locales]] — but even they have limits and you, sir, are not swanning off to the Caribbean just to “check the place out”. Not even for the good of [[Firm - FCA Rulebook Term|the Firm]]<ref>See what I did there?</ref>. | ||
[[File:Rum cake close-up.jpg|thumb|right|I mean just look atht eh ''heft'' of it.]] | |||
The closest you will get is when the [[corporate service provider|corporate service providers]] out in their occasionally inclement paradise send you their annual thank-you for your custom: By time-honoured tradition, they do this by means of an air-mailed Tortuga [[Cayman Islands rum cake]]. | The closest you will get is when the [[corporate service provider|corporate service providers]] out in their occasionally inclement paradise send you their annual thank-you for your custom: By time-honoured tradition, they do this by means of an air-mailed Tortuga [[Cayman Islands rum cake]]. | ||
This may seem meagre compensation but don’t be fooled. Just wait till you taste that bad boy. Tortuga cakes are stone-cold ''amazing''. They may arrive looking like they have been pummelled by baggage handlers at every depot across the Florida keys — in fairness they probably have — oh, but the ''taste''. Like a great, sopping, golden sponge, if you squeezed it, it would | This may seem meagre compensation but don’t be fooled. Just wait till you taste that bad boy. Just ''lift'' it: feel the ''heft''. Tortuga cakes are stone-cold ''amazing''. They may arrive looking like they have been pummelled by baggage handlers at every depot across the Florida keys — in fairness they probably have — oh, but the ''taste''. Like a great, moist, sopping, golden sponge, if you squeezed it, it would pure golden, tropical nectar would run down your arm. | ||
For a second you will be bodily transported to that sun-kissed, philandering, intermittently-windy financial utopia, and then, and ''then'' — | |||
And then you will snap back to the tattoo of drizzle against your window. Boy, it’s dark out there. | And then you will snap back to the tattoo of drizzle against your window. Boy, it’s dark out there. | ||