The Dog is Dead.

He huffs. He puffs. He is about to blow his own house down. This is the house he built from a succesful 1980's.

The noughties. The nought-ies. So much is gone. The dog is dead. The house is at its most skeletal form.

His wife misses the nights out. The restaurants, holidays and the sun. Perhaps, it is fair to say she misses the money. Perhaps.

One son is a lawyer, fed into a luxury life he can maintain. However, he doesn't like his wife. The other is in sales, doing well but worryingly similar to his father.

Much of his investment in them has paid off.

He is diagnosed with prostate cancer.

He huffs. He puffs.

A mother lost to cancer when he was twelve. An ambitious young man who found wealth, then spent a lifetime trying to sustain it.

There was September 11. There was George W Bush. There was Dick Fuld, Hank Paulson, Gordon Brown and Goodwin. There was recession.

There was depression.

He huffs. He puffs.

Overweight. No hair. The dog is dead.

The market will pick up again. There is money to be made. The house can be saved.

Or he can move.