Fuck! Terry Richardson, who knows me from a shoot in L.A., is in town and wants to see me to snort some coke, but I have to work. Already the fourth pitch this week. I’m sitting in my light-flooded loft office high above the rooftops of the city and have desperate art directors showing me their layouts. They’re gold, but I want the Grand Prix. I’ve shot through the ranks this year and get a little dizzy when looking down at my colleagues. My smile is so disarming that I won the Nike account on my own with an empty board. A phone call disrupts the train of thought I was just having. I listen to the whispery singsong of some CMO weeping for joy with one ear while I talk to NASA and the White House on the other line. Thanks to my negotiation savvy, I manage to get the branded rocket shot off to the moon before The One Show submission deadline. Casually, I doodle the new Mercedes logo and use a napkin to scribble down some snappy dialogue that I’ll email to Woody Allen later. (He can use it free of charge, just like last time. Say hi to Scarlett, is she still mad at me?) The phone again. The new intern is here for her interview. This time, I ordered HR to get me a bisexual redhead, heavy on the tattoos. I get rid of my copywriter with some lame excuse (take the new Cannes Lions down to the cellar, put them right next to the others) and slip into my comfy robe. Half an hour later, I disentangle myself from her clasp. Totally exhausted and still trembling with excitement, she sinks into my all-white designer sofa. On my way down to the underground car park I whip out my platinum iPhone, tweet a few thoughts on how to use Facebook to drive brand loyalty (retweet by Mark Zuckerberg 12 seconds later) and leap into my AMG Gullwing coated in Pantone 871 (a little somethin’ from a Russian oligarch for designing his “business” cards). Got to head off to the minigolf course now to meet Jean-Remy and discuss that opening on the board of management. (I let him win again, otherwise he makes a fuss.) The bells are ringing midnight by the time I come home to my 300 square meter apartment, lounging in my leather wingchair made of whale foreskin. Whew, what a completely ordinary day at Jung von Matt. You’ve got to look and feel fresh for Rihanna’s backstage party, I remind myself, so I start typing Terry’s number into my Blackberry. Apply at jvm.com. JvM is looking for creatives. Really, really creative creatives. (Or tattooed bisexual redheaded interns.)