Mag-log inRobert loses a well paid managerial job at the age of fifty. Then experience the depths of unemployment first hand. He is on the verge of desperation. He feels like he's in a narrow, narrow hallway. There's no sideways and back, just a small door in front, does it open ...? Will he manage to get out of the precarious situation ...?
view moreThe weather god, didn't mean it well with Vienna.It stormed and trickled, old newspapers and dead leaves whirled through the air.You could tell from the disgruntled faces of the passers-by, clutching their hats, that there were already the first autumn storms.Which now apparently went to the kidneys.Robert stood on the twelfth floor of the Hilton, at the window of his spacious, modern, furnished place, and looked down at the street.In the good hope of seeing a taxi pull up that Christine would get out of.
Two months later.In Frankfurt, Zantallee No. 13. Horst stood elegantly dressed, as in the old days, at the entrance of the completely renovated and unrecognizable building that housed the former multi-cult colors and was visibly pleased to greet Robert got out of a taxi."Hello Horst," said Robert, greeting his friend while he handed the taxi driver a ticket, "great what you've done with the neglected shed, I'm really impressed, congratulations!"“Well, it cost a lot of money after
Multi-Kult-Colors Offensive suddenly set in.Roberts countermeasures caught them in the process of preparation.Massive advertising for the new paint products was suddenly everywhere and always present.The dealers' warehouses were overflowing with multi-cult colors, as Robert already knew.For van Sweeten, the world had to be perfectly fine now, he thought to himself.The original plan to initially only lead the competition based on price and conditions had to be abandoned without further ado, as it was far too late for that.
The next day, in the late afternoon, Robert drove the red Alfa Romeo rental car on the Autostrada to Bologna.He had an appointment with the manager of one of the paint factories whose addresses he now had.Shortly before Bologna he got lost, cursing, he had taken a wrong turn somewhere.The damned clock in the dashboard continued to run relentlessly, he was already running out of time and he hated nothing more than being late.With the help of a taxi that drove ahead of him and showed the way, he got there in time, gave the driver some bills and then drove into the company premises.Reported to the porter who arranged for him to be picked up.





