It had been a long day. Mind you, he likely would have described it as a long decade. It wasn't that the actuary didn't enjoy his work, he thoroughly did, but he yearned for more. He considered himself more of a renaissance man, with interests in all the classical humanities, paintings and theatre, symphonies and literature.
Or more accurately, he used to. It had been more than 20 years since he last grazed a gallery or concert hall. Early to work, no daylight when he returned, his stack of novels and records collected dust in front of his aging television.
He didn't expect much of that Friday evening when he packed his briefcase and left the office into the foggy midnight air. Turning the corner he continued along the abandoned cobblestone alley. He passed dumpsters behind pubs, and rotting wood palettes behind the furniture depot that's had a "Store Closing Sale" for the past nine years. As he tramped onwards, a song pierced the noise.
He rounded the curve of the alley. There was the source, in the midst of the haze. Musicians scattered about played tight harmonies in perfect time with mandolins and dented brass horns. Painters hummed along as they brushed away the emptiness from their canvas with colored oils.
The actuary stood in awe at the glimpse of true beauty he had stumbled upon. Drifting onto the street, still tuned into the rhythm he had just left, the music suddenly faded. Jolted from his bliss, he turned back. The artists were gone.
A supernatural peace fell upon him. Maybe there is something more to life, he thought, as he strolled into the station, under the sign for OXFORD CIRCUS.