(This one may not work for you. But try to laugh with me anyway.)
Thirteen years ago, soon after I joined The Economist, I was riding down in the elevator (“lift”, according to our style guide) of our “Tower” at 25 St. James’s Street in London.
There were two or three of us. We were silent. Drab weather. Nothing to say.
Just before the door opened, one of the others turned toward me, with expressively furtive, even dirty or intimidating, body language. Was he about to flash open his trench coat? Confess to a crime? Attack me?
I have doubts about free trade,
he said, and ducked out into the drizzle and its pin-striped shadows.