
It’s amazing what a little competition can do. One minute you’re just a commuter on the day-to-day train of routine, contemplating a brief with as much appetite as an anorexic supermodel suffering from nausea, and the next you’re a boy racer at a set of traffic lights. And it doesn’t take much, really. In fact, much as anyone would prefer to work at the stress levels of a Buddhist monk, there is nothing like the intoxicating whiff of an adversary, real or intangible, to make a brief look like a fondant au chocolat after a month-long diet.
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