This is a recent photo of the president of the World Bank, Paul Wolfowitz.
Now, I know nothing about the World Bank. Before I saw this picture, I couldn't have told you anything about the World Bank. I couldn't have told you anything about Paul Wolfowitz. I'm not the sort that reads The Economist for kicks.(1)
I am terribly amused by this photograph, but I'm not sure I can articulate exactly why I'm amused. It's something along the lines of feet of clay. Here is this Very Important World Bank President (who can probably afford hand-made Egyptian cotton shirts and silk ties and could go out and buy 1,000 pairs of expensive socks as easily as kiss my hand) with holey socks.
All sorts of interesting ideas come to mind:
* The man clearly has more things on his mind than making sure he's wearing presentable, photo-op socks every day.
* Did Mr. Wolfowitz's mother nag him about wearing clean underwear just in case he was in a car accident?
* I wonder if his wife is appalled by this picture and is complaining right this second of how she can no longer hold her head high at the weekly bridge game since her Very Important Husband has been Seen In Public with holey socks.
* My walking around the office today wearing my grey slacks with a large grease spot on the left knee (which I didn't notice until lunch time) is, comparatively, pretty small potatoes.
(1) Now that I've actually looked at their web site it looks more informative than I thought, and I ought to put The Economist on my list of online media sources to attempt to read on a semi-regular basis -- as if I didn't have enough reading to keep up on to be a Reasonably Informed Citizen. Oh, bloody hell. I hate when I do this to myself...