Archibald Longlseeves

Archie had oft dreamed of being an entrepreneur. He had so wanted to be at the higher tables of the Grand Duchy's upper echelons.

Archie had toiled for 2.5 decades in lowly administrative jobs, vying for a promotion. A car parking spot. Access to the executive loos.

Archie had worn the expensive shirts and carried heavyset watches on his wrist. Archie had shopped at the more expensive end of the supermarkets.

He'd hoped for bigger things. And, so, when the first heatwave began, Archie started fudging figures, moving decimals.

Cooking the books as the skin would cook on the backs of Duchy residents sizzling in Spain.

He looked at the forecasts, he perused the data, he asked ChatGPT, if it was a good idea to open a shop in a climate such as this. Business and environment wise.

He sought angel investors and ended up with a hairy-knuckled chap called Beefy loaning him several thousand euros to import gallons of sun lotion from some far off clime. Beefy had a brow that, when furrowed, people could get lost in. Beefy was not known to be a patient man.

Archie had tasked any one of Luxembourg's zillion creative agencies to come up with a snazzy slogan. And for 6 figures they'd come back with LetzTan and a bottle in the colours of the national flag.

Archie had planned a grand opening party, Bettel was to do a little speech. Cremant was to be quaffed. He was to be raking it in.

Alas, the arse fell out of Archie's world as the clouds rolled in. As the national airline became more aggressive with their advertising campaigns and as people reached once more for the cardigans.

Archie watched as the share price plummeted and as his phone screen flashed with Beefy's number.

75 missed calls so far.