Jeremy, of the Paris Jeremies

Jeremy wakes up refreshed but frazzled. Thats how he likes it. It was his Blackberry that caused him to wake, not the alarm clock on the bedside table. Every night he unplugs the alarm clock only to find it magically replugged when he returns from work. The time is always reset. No matter how many times he has told the maid he doesn't like the way the clock buzzes in his ear at night, she nods her dark eyes, plugs in the clock and resets the time. It is simply part of her "jour" she says.
Jeremy takes the service stairwell down to the boulevard. The service people think this is amusing.
Jeremy has found a boulangerie around the corner at which he has, with dogged determination, made himself a morning local. The man behind the counter and the woman in front of the counter stare in parsimonious but won approvement. Jeremy has asked a few times to have his tea iced, each time met with the scoff of "peut etre pour l'ete." He sips his hot tea.
Jeremy uses the elevator to go two floors above his own. In the room the assistant, sporting croissant crumbs on his lapel to match Jeremy's own near the shirt pocket, is busy starting the Avid and organizing the bins.
Jeremy sits down to his day's work of reminding people what they already know but have chosen to forget because they felt they were too important, too busy and both.
His day will consist of managing a few frames, keeping tabs on the music composition, making sure the director meets with the Minister of Arts, and then the doctor, and pressing his thumbs into the tiny buttons on his mobile phone. He will talk incessantly but always with productive intent.
Later another assistant will call with an invitation to dinner at an impossibly hip restaurant with a group of celebrities and pseudo-celebrities.
He will go and eat something with a delicious sauce and charm the pants of anyone within earshot.
Except for that one person who has no wit.