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Simon Bigwig- Character Inference from Narrative



Simon Bigwig loosened his silk tie and sat back for just a moment into his leather, throne-like chair. He swivelled it around and gazed out through the window on to the twinkling lights of the city. It was Christmas Eve and the office was deserted, abandoned by most in favour of more pleasurable pursuits, yet Simon remained. He had to get these orders finished by tomorrow, holidays or not. Besides, he wouldn't have had to stay this late if Jones had done his job properly!

His computer announced yet another email with its relentless ping. The businessman glanced at his Rolex: 7.30pm...still time. He began tap, tap, tapping at the keys in the darkness, his face illuminated by the screen.

The phone rang. It was his wife.

"Simon, where are you? We've started already, " she said. Simon could hear the carols and the piano playing in his front room.

"I'm just leaving. I'll be there in 15 minutes, I promise," he replied, nestling the phone under his chin.

"Make sure you are, Darling. It is Christmas Eve after all."

Simon put the phone down, then picked up a bundle of papers from underneath the silver-plated photo of his family. It wasn't that he didn't want to be there, he just couldn't. Business didn't stop for Christmas and so neither did he. Ann had to understand that. I mean, how did she think they paid for everything?

K McCallam ©


Simon Bigwig got off the train wih copies of the Economist and the Financial Times tucked under his arm, his gaze fixed on fingers checking his phone. He marched into work, through the empty, open-plan office to this study. It was 06:30 am.

“Where is everyone?” he growled to himself. Every minute lost was a million pounds missed. The top of his head was sweating, and he collapsed into his big chair, suddenly tired. He looked at the old photo of his wife and young children, Jane and Tom. Jane was applying for university and Tom had GCSEs this year. Simon sank further into his seat, his belly popping out of his Gucci shirt.

By T. Jones (Y5)©


Conversation with his secretary

"Where's my paper, girl?" asked Simon Bigwig, crashing his fist on his office desk.

"Mr Bigwig, sir, they haven't come yet," replied Miss Jones nervously.

"Well call down to reception and tell them to hurry up," snapped Simon, standing up and brushing down his expensive suit. He signalled for her to leave.

"Right away, sir. Right away." Felicity almost bowed before closing the door behind her with relief. She was regretting her decision to accept the job offer. It had only been two weeks, but despite the money and the kudos of working at SB Enterprises, every single day had been hellish. Mr Bigwig was a brute whose unpredictable and changeable tempers were more like a toddler's than a middle-aged man.

K McCallam ©


Simon Bigwig rose brusquely from his black, leather chair and smoothed down the trousers of his Gucci suit. He opened the oak cabinet, filled a tumbler and drank his first whiskey of the day. It was only 11 oclock, but these days he needed it to calm him down. As he drank, he caught sight of himself in the cabinet mirror and sighed 'Thinning again!' He combed his hair over his ever-growing bald patch.

K McCallam ©


Simon Bigwig Profile:

Background – very clever, lots of academic qualifications. Married with two teenage children.

Appearance – balding, ageing, likes to look smart

Character – gets stressed easily, frustrated with his employees (workers). Likes to make money.


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