Degree in Political Science with a Minor in Economics…check

One year of French Immersion at L’Université Laval, Quebec…check

Strategic move to Ottawa to pursue a career in External Affairs, or International Development – my field of interest…check

Write External Affairs entry exam…check

Pass exam, but fail to get accepted into External Affairs…check

Become despondent, drink heavily…check

Call up friends, go to neighbourhood pub, The Royal Oak, and commiserate over beer…check

“I dunno dude, I thought you were a shoe-in,” said Steve, “the degree, the French, the passable English. Not to mention the New Wave hair.” “You’re such a bureaucratic catch!” “And doesn’t your dad work for the Feds? Aren’t you genetically part of “the Machine?”

“Yeah, but he’s with Consumer & Corporate Affairs in Vancouver,” I replied, “my pedigree is a bit thin for the boys at External…and it’s not the hair, it was an exam, not an interview.”

I love Steve, and all my pals from our little garage-band, The Simpletones. Steve is our Bass player, and we are joined tonight by Ted (drums), Adam (vocals), Bridget (more vocals) and Andrew (vocals and mystical inspiration). Everyone is blessed with a good sense of humour. The Newcastle Brown is flowing, but I’m not buying rounds, for obvious reasons.

“The odds were not in your favour George,” chimed in Adam, “as I understand it, over 3,000 write the exam annually, 300 pass, and 30 get jobs…you had a 1% chance of becoming a Foreign Service Officer.” I trusted Adam’s stats, and take, on this process, as he – unlike myself – was from Bureaucratic Royalty.

“Yeah, I guess I can console myself being in the top 10%,” I replied, “they let me know that I’d passed the exam, but that makes it worse in a way as I was obviously “weeded out”. What hurts is that the two guys I share my place with both landed jobs with External. Neville has a Masters in International Studies and Bill has a solid work history designed for a job in External. He was an Air Cadet and rose up in the ranks, so he knows how to take orders”

“Yeah, but you know how to take orders too George,” said Ted, “didn’t you tell us you used to be a Keg waiter?” Everybody laughed uproariously – myself included – and I raised up my glass, “Hi, my name’s George and I’ll be your Foreign Service Officer tonight!” We clinked our glasses and guzzled our beer. One consolation was the delicious array of brews at The Royal Oak – arguably, the best brew on tap in greater Ottawa. Patty, the waitress, came over to our table to see if we needed more drinks. “Always!” came the unanimous reply, “And Adam’s buying,” I said, “‘Cuz he’s got ‘connections.’” “My largesse has a certain shelf-life,” replied Adam, “As does your large ass!” countered Steve. “And who’s picking up the tab for your food and rent?” Adam parried, “Not to mention my guitar strings!” I laughed. “Maybe you should go back to slinging steak & lobster buddy,” said Ted, “what else ya gonna do with a Poli Sci degree?” “And a minor in Economics!!” I overrode. By now we were all giddy with beer, laughter and camaraderie.

“What the hell can you do with a BA in this country?” I queried, “it really doesn’t prepare you for much…it doesn’t confer any marketable skills.” “It conferred the use of the word confer,” said Andrew, “good one…you’re probably good at researching and writing and working to some kind of deadline.” “Yeah, I guess,” I said, as I reflected on what exactly I’d taken away from four years of higher education. “I saw a posting recently for Communication Officers with Consumer and Corporate Affairs,” said Bridget, “…looked like some kind of writing job with the UFFI Centre, in Hull.” “What in God’s name is the UFFI Centre?” I quivered. “I think it stands for Urea Formaldehyde Foam Insulation…some kind of Government program that needs ‘splainin’ by eager young recruits…like you!” she grinned. “Oooh, sounds hellish,” I said, “and where do I find these things…these postings to which you refer?” I asked. “They’re on the board at the Government Employment Office down on Gloucester,” she replied, “go check it out.” “Hmmm -sounds like the beginning of a dead-end Kafkaesque bureaucratic nightmare,” I said, “what’s the pay?” “$26,000.,” replied Bridget. “Hmmm…,” I hesitated. “And benefits!” she added. “Sign me up!” I enthused, slapping my hand on the table, “I’ll go and check it out tomorrow, but until then, why don’t we head over to the Preston Lounge* and rock out!”

All heads nodded in agreement, beers were downed, bills were paid, and we all got up to leave. I turned to Steve, “You got the London Dock?” I asked. “Wouldn’t even think of jamming without getting a little tuned-up,” he smiled.

(*The Preston Lounge was our jamming studio, situated in the basement of an Automotive Garage on Preston Street, just a few blocks away from the Royal Oak pub)

The next morning – not too early, as I was nursing my usual post-jam hangover – I wandered down to the Employment Office to scan the cork boards with their myriad of job postings. Hmmm…Fisheries Administration? No.  Atomic Energy Agency Technician? No. Canada Agriculture & Food Museum Curator? Please God, shoot me now. There were dozens and dozens of postings, and over 100 different Government Agencies to choose from. My “morning after” condition made sorting, picking and choosing grindingly painful.

OK…focus, focus…ahh, here we go, Consumer and Corporate Affairs – UFFI Centre, Communications Officer, Place du Portage, Hull…Queries and Resumes to Roger Gauthier, Human Resources Department. Got it. I wrote it all down on one of the little notepads provided, then wandered out in search of coffee and breakfast, and coffee.

Perhaps I got the interview because I was seen as somewhat of a novelty. Not many University grads were making the move from the West Coast to Ottawa due to the horrible winters and demands of Bilingualism, or, there’s a remote possibility that my father’s position as a Regional Director of C&CA in Vancouver conferred some loyalty or perception of familiarity with the Department and its ways. However the path was paved, I wandered into Roger’s office on a hot summer day in 1981, wearing dress pants, shirt & tie and my Harris Tweed jacket (my only nice, “officey” attire), to a cloud of smoke and coughing.

Sitting at his desk, obscured by a haze of tobacco smoke, behind an ashtray full of butts, sat Roger Gauthier – the morbidly obese, chain-smoking head of HR for the UFFI Centre, staff population of about 120. “Come in, come in, have a seat,” he said in perfect, heavily-accented – English. These were the days of unabashed smoking. Very few restrictions were in place, and if you wanted to smoke – you could…so he did.

The interview went well, Roger was a very cordial and affable guy and, before long, the interview turned more into a conversation about ourselves – including Roger, sharing a bit about himself. “I love my food,” he said, “and wine,” “I consider myself to be somewhat of a gourmand,” “but you know…my doctor,” he continued, “my doctor says ‘Roger’, you have high blood pressure and cholesterol,” “if you don’t cut back on your lifestyle, you’ll be dead in six months!” “Ha Ha!” he chortled, “but I told him, I’m not going to quit, I’m enjoying life too much, I’m not giving up my rich foods!” Cough-cough-cough! Long draw on cigarette, exhale.

I nodded politely, smiled, laughed at the appropriate moments, and agreed with everything Roger said. Despite my oxygen deprivation and sweaty, Harris Tweed hyperthermia, I got the job, and started the following week.

Urea Formaldehyde Foam Insulation was – for many, in the 1970’s – a godsend. If you had an older uninsulated residential or commercial property, UFFI could be injected into the hollow uninsulated wall cavity of your home, helping to greatly reduce heating costs during the 70’s Energy Crisis. It was such a great thing that the Federal Government gave people $5,000 grants to help cover the costs of installation. All good.

Then came the discovery that UFFI often didn’t cure properly in many wall cavities, leading to moisture, mold, mildew, and off-gassing of formaldehyde – a potentially carcinogenic gas. It was banned in 1980, and it subsequently became a requirement of property sales to sign a declaration that UFFI either was – or wasn’t – in the home. This left, thousands of homeowners, fearful of the possible cancer-causing monster living in their walls, and with the inability to sell their homes – unless at vastly reduced rates. All bad.

Enter the Federal Government (once again) and the creation of the UFFI Centre to save the day! $20,000 grants would flow! Technical experts would be hired! Teams of specialists would show up – dressed head to toe in protective gear – to remove the nasty UFFI, and, most importantly, a Communication’s Department would be created, with talented writers to act as explainers and apologists for the vast volume of letters that began to flow from the 57,000 Canadians affected by this fiasco, asking, “What the Fuck is going on?”

It was in this Department that I found myself, with a half-dozen other Communications Officers, an Assistant Manager, and a Manager, all overseen by a Director – and we were but one cog in the larger Ministry of Consumer & Corporate Affairs, headed up by The Honourable Minister Judy Erola. An Office in a Department in a Centre within a Ministry. “Hello Franz can I help you?”

It was the days of onion skin, carbon paper and IBM Selectrics. Letters came in, if they lacked urgency they would be stuck in a yellow folder. If urgent, a red sticky tag would be attached. If it was intergovernmental or Ministerial correspondence, the urgency would require a red folder, with several red sticky tags.

 I know what you’re thinking, “How incredibly fascinating, please tell me more!”

Luckily, I worked with a lively and fun group of people, which made most days pass with good-natured banter and pleasant exchanges, but it didn’t take long for the repetitive, dead-end nature of this job to set in. I lived for after-work, the Royal Oak, my little new-wavey group – The Simpletones – and my new girlfriend Stephanie.

Stephanie and I met at a Halloween party where she showed up dressed like a head of Broccoli and I came as David Bowie disguised as the Elephant Man (his Broadway stage, breakthrough phase). Stephanie’s broccoli outfit was fetchingly cute, and when I took the bag off Joseph Merrick’s disfigured head, revealing my painstakingly made-up Bowie impersonation, replete with the Aladdin Sane facial lightning bolt, we connected, and it was “relationship on.”

In short order we were doing what young couples in their mid-20’s in the early 80’s do. Stephanie had recently moved back to Ottawa from Paris where she was training to be a chef at Le Cordon Bleu. She was also working with a lawyer in Boston, seeking exoneration for her junior role in an international drug-smuggling ring which had recently been nabbed in Canada’s largest ever hashish bust.

“Hmmm,” I thought, “a beguiling head of broccoli, who can cook, with connections to a global criminal organization…I think I’m in love.”  Given her background, is it any wonder that she would fall for a guy with a fascinating career as an Information Officer with the UFFI Centre – like myself.

I thought I knew coffee, but I was wrong. The coffee that I had a relationship with since that first cup – at Youth Hostels, during my hitchhiking trip across Canada, at the age of 17 – was pedestrian fare compared to what Stephanie brought into my life from Paris. My coffee was a tin of Maxwell House or MJB, ground up God knows when, left on a shelf, percolated, and kept, warming on a stove for hours…or days. It was bottomless cups served at Diners by affable waitresses, wandering around with glass Bunn-o-Matic coffee pots. Stephanie brought fresh ground beans and sexy machines, whipping up hot milk into Lattés and Cappuccinos, or served small, hot black and muscular, in the form of kick-ass Espressos. It was – for a coffee junkie like myself – caffeine heaven.

During the hot Ottawa summer months, to get a little exercise, I would ride my bike from my place at Bank St. & McLeod, through downtown Ottawa, over the Eddy St or Portage Bridge into Hull – about a 20-minute ride – to my cubicle at Place du Portage, buzzing on one (or two) of Stephanie’s double espressos.

On just such a day, roughly 6 months after I started working at the UFFI Centre, I arrived at our Communications Office, caffeinated and a little sweaty, only to find my co-workers, standing around, coffees in hand, looking a little sombre, and engaged in a buzz of quiet conversation. Heads turned as I walked in and Michelle, our Communication Department Director, said, breathlessly, “Good morning George, you probably haven’t heard yet, but, Roger Gauthier died last night.”

“Oh no,” I replied, taken aback, “what happened?” “He was having dinner with friends at Le Coq d’Or in the Byward Market last night, and suffered a massive heart attack,” came the reply. “Well,” I thought, “at least he died doing what he loved.”

Everybody liked Roger, and, as is so often the case when someone familiar to us dies, we must pause and discuss. Questions, concerns, and speculation flow, “Did he have any family?” “Did he die right in the restaurant or did they get him to the hospital?” “Did he have a girlfriend?” “Will there be a celebration of life?” “He’s left a vacancy at the management level in HR, any idea what it pays?” and so on. After a time, the present moment returns, telephones ring, red-tagged dockets must be answered, and Michelle reminds us of our need to return to the tasks at hand. “I’m sure there’ll be some kind of funeral to attend, or some celebration of life at the Department level,” she said, “I’ll keep you all posted.”

There was always a considerable volume of correspondence to attend to at The Centre. With over 57,000 affected, concerned & angry homeowners seeking redress, the letters flowed in. Although computers were not yet commonplace, there was a system in place to recognize the similarity of many of the questions, complaints, and queries being thrown at our department, and to create a series of “standardized replies” to help streamline the process. Often, the job of a Communications Officer was simply reading a letter and fabricating a reply using these stock responses. “Hmmm, looks like an ‘A3’, a ‘C5” a ‘B7” and a ‘C8’ oughta do it,” which would then be sent off for assembly and signatures by one of the Department Heads.

More complex letters – those requiring technical information, detailed legal or political responses – would be handled individually, and created by one of our Info Officers, before making its way through the gauntlet of multi-level bureaucratic approval. These “sensitive” letters would often be massaged several times on their way up and down the chain of command until – like a rare jewel – they were polished to glistening perfection. I was starting to wonder how I could become a drug mule in Stephanie’s defunct smuggling ring.

As I write this little story, the first line of Bass Player Stephen Willcock’s song “Oyster” jumps out at me, like a deer leaping from the bushes by the side of winding country road on a dark moonless night…

“Defeated by Dreams, his vision of flight and space conquered,

Orson saw a miracle in the stamp of his mother”

Needing a little more context and content, I turned to the creative genius himself – who was, of course, still sitting at the Royal Oak, drinking Newcastle Brown – and he promptly forwarded this lovely piece from a book he’s been working on, aptly called, “The Simpletones.”

“He shifts tempo to a slower four chord sequence, the opening on their one original so far, “The Oyster song.” Stephen’s bass figures a liquid rhythm and the drums splash in four beats later. George grabs his guitar by the neck as it floats by. Unbroken waves lift him as his hands chop at the surface of his strings like a high wind on a whitecap. His sparse chords tread the rolling swell of “Oyster.” He begins clipping it, chipping it, a staccato start that declare a tension needing resolution. He is experimenting a little before opening the verse:

Defeated by dreams, his visions of flight and space conquered,

Orson saw a miracle in the stamp of his mother,

Hard-edged the shores of a continent,

On maps made of earth and ink

 George begins increasing sustain by increments, the chords lingering slightly, suspense, momentum, the first chorus restrained.

In the sea, In the sea

The oyster bears a pearl, And the pearl is an egg,

 In the sea,

The bass is ineffable, it surges from the walls, swells from the floor. There is a physicality to its fluctuating currents of rhythm. An awesome circling tubular wave surrounds him as he surfs its undertow to beach gently at the next verse.

Starstruck and chainbound, Bird of the night and light darkened,

The blind girl sold her cane for a place in the lottery,

Soft flesh the body of womanhood, In a clockwork thin and pale

Still gentle with the chorus but here Ted’s drumming gains strength.

In the sea, In the sea,

The oyster bears a pearl and the pearl is an egg

Now George cuts loose, his guitar takes over as the driving force behind the song. His voice a howl adrift –

In the sea, In the sea In the sea

No one is ready for the machine that they have become. The first three chords are animate forces in an oceanic cycle that climb to culminate with the fourth chord crashing over and over as waves breaking on rock. “Sea” assumes four to seven syllables while waiting for the bridge, a falsetto “lalalalalalalala in the oh-ho-ho-shin”, each la marked by Ted’s snare. They combine to create forces of swell and upheaval, liquid undulation seismic as far as the street outside, oscillating the suspension of passing cars.”

…a passage from “The Simpletones” by Stephen Willcock

Although my dreams may have suffered a defeat, and my visions of flight and space lay temporarily vanquished by ‘The Three Fates’, I still had Steve, Ted and the Simpletones.  Sanity was maintained with late night jam sessions at the Preston Lounge, lubricated by beer and London Dock rum, endless dinner parties with our eclectic group of friends, and all the carnal calisthenics that a young man in his mid 20’s could wish for.

Then, one fine day, a few weeks after Roger’s passing, upon arrival at the UFFI Centre, Michelle called me into her office to let me know that Anne – our Unit Manager – had to leave suddenly the following morning for a week, due to a family emergency, and to ask me if I could take over the role of Manager in her absence.

As one of the underlings, I’d certainly watched Anne at work since my arrival at the Centre, and felt – through my somewhat indifferent observations – that her job didn’t appear terribly demanding. “Hmmm,” I thought, “she seems to hand out correspondence that comes in, follows up on the flow of yellow and red Dockets, answers a few questions, talks on the phone with her mom, and liaises with Michelle” “No problem, Michelle, piece of cake, thanks for giving me the opportunity to take on this significant challenge, prove myself worthy, and draw attention to my superiors of my reliability and cool-headedness under pressure.” Well, OK, maybe not the latter bit, but if you understand how bureaucracy works, you’ll get the implied ‘test’ that this mini-promotion represented. I could tell – almost immediately – that some of my co-workers –  who’d been there longer than I – were slightly miffed that they were overlooked for this climb up the next rung of responsibility. I experienced a completely unfamiliar sensation – I think it’s called smugness – it was to be short-lived.

“Drinks are on me chums,” I said, as the boys gathered for after-work beverages at “The Oak”. “Yay!” came the group response. “What’s the occasion George?”, asked Adam. “Just got a temporary promotion today to Manager, so I’m feeling a little flush,” I replied, gulping down some nice cool Guinness. “Wow, that was pretty quick, Jesus, you’ve only been there, like, 6 or 7 months,” continued Adam, “the boys at External are going to be kicking themselves when they realize that they passed over such obvious talent,” he said laughing. “Well, it’s only for a week,” I said, “but once they see how efficiently I hand out those yellow and red Dockets, I think I can expect a fairly quick rise through the ranks.” Everyone laughed and Andrew observed, “Enjoy it while it lasts lads, we all know how these things can play out.” Heads nodded reflectively and glasses clinked, “A toast to the Manager!”, they all chimed in. “Another round please Patty!”, I shouted. It was going to be one of those evenings.

Stephanie was pleased that I’d received the positive news, less pleased that I staggered in drunk at 2am on a workday. My promise to take her out for a nice dinner on my winnings the following evening brought smiles – and likely ate up whatever incremental monetary increase I was to receive for one weeks’ promotion.

Getting up hungover and late is never a great way to start any new job, but Stephanie said she’d make me an especially strong coffee to get my little legs pumping quickly on my bike ride over to Hull. “Here’s a triple Sumatran espresso,” she said, “just ground this morning, this’ll get you there on time” I kissed her goodbye, jumped on my bike and sped off, keeping a mind on my tight window of time.

“Look at that,” I said to myself, heart racing and slightly out of breath, “a few minutes before nine – that might be my best time ever.” Rather than wait for the elevator, I sprinted up the three flights of stairs to our office on the third floor, marched briskly down the hall, and entered the Communication Department to a series of nods, waves, and a chorus of “Good Mornings” and “Bonjours.”

I made my way to Anne’s cubicle, in the corner near the window. We worked in an open-office layout, with 4-foot movable baffles, allowing greater overall visibility but limited privacy. I sat down at her desk – my home for the next week while Anne was off in Brantford caring for her ailing mother – and surveyed the rather large pile of files, Dockets, paperwork, and notes, hastily scribbled for my attention. Despite my hangover and lack of sleep, I thought to myself, “Man that Sumatran is really working…I’m just buzzing…I should be able to breeze through these stacks of correspondence in no time.”

As the red Dockets held more urgency, I turned my attention to those that were festooned with additional “red stickies” implying greater need for care, consideration and timeliness. Invariably, these were letters addressed to Judy Erola, the Minister of Consumer and Corporate Affairs, and came from families experiencing serious distress (possible UFFI-related cancer & bankruptcy), and sent to their Member of Parliament to try and create some “political clout” behind their request.

As is so often the case within bureaucracies, once a program of assistance was in place, it was difficult – if not impossible – to go beyond the parameters of the program, so replies were often designed to placate and assure. “We’re coming…help is on the way.”

As I sorted through the stacks of correspondence, dividing various dockets up to distribute to my co-workers, I came across an urgent piece from a family that were at their wits end about their concern for their children’s health, living in a devalued home that they were now incapable of selling. It was a letter I’d replied to several days earlier on behalf of the Minister, and it had made its way through multiple layers of bureaucratic editing, proofing and approval before landing on Minister Erola’s desk, where she noticed a punctuation error – a period missing from the end of a sentence – circled it on the onion skin paper, and sent it all the way back down the chain of command, to arrive back in my hands – once again.

I stared at the error, with a mix of disbelief, mild annoyance, and the realization that this little, seemingly insignificant, mistake, would likely cost the system (read taxpayer) extra money and time, while the poor family struggled and waited. My coffee buzz was on max and I felt my blood pressure rise slightly. Just then, Paul, one of my fellow co-workers, leaned over the partition and asked if I could help him solve a particularly difficult problem he was having, with one of his dockets. I turned to reply, when all of a sudden, another co-worker – Chantale – leaned over a different partition and said, “Georges, je n’ai rien à faire, Anne distribute généralement la correspondance dès qu’elle arrive à 8:30.”

As I was deciphering Chantale’s comment with my, somewhat limited command of French, (while realizing she was giving me a slight dig, pointing out that Anne normally arrived at 8:30 to hand out the day’s workload) – the phone rang. While Paul & Chantale leaned over the partitions waiting for a reply, and the phone continued to ring, I could feel my heart start racing and my stress level rising. Before picking up the phone I turned slowly to Paul & Chantale and said, with a forced air of calm, “I think it’s Michelle, can I get back to you both in about 15 minutes?” …and picked up the phone. It was Michelle, our department head, “George, I need to see you in my office.”

Maybe it was the hangover and lack of sleep, maybe it was the coffee, maybe it was the heart-pumping bike ride at the start of my day, maybe it was the triplex of demands and requests from co-workers and Boss landing all at once – whatever the reason, I was now in full “deer in the headlights” mode. “Uhh, good morning, Michelle,” I said, trying to hide the slight tremble in my voice, and the horrible, fearful feeling that I wasn’t physically, mentally or emotionally capable of seeing her right at that moment, “uhh…I just have to take care of a couple of things, can I come and see you in about half an hour?” “Sure, see you then,” she replied.

I got up from my desk, loosened my tie, left our department, headed down the hall to the stairs, wandered down the three flights, found the front door to the building, left the building, and walked down the street to a little park about a block away that had benches, and sat down – shell shocked. I’d never had a panic attack before, and I wondered if, like Rodger, I was having a heart attack.

It was about 9:45am and there I was sitting in a park, calming down but still slightly bewildered by what had just happened. “Wow,” I thought, “what was that all about? I really don’t know if I can go back up there, maybe I’m not cut out to be a manager…or a writer…or an employee.”

I stared at the trees and the few people in the park – and then I noticed a Depanneur on the adjacent corner. It took a moment to dawn on me, but then I remembered that I was in Hull, in the much more liberal province of Quebec, where liquor was sold 7 days a week, all day long, even in little corner convenience stores. A beer…I wanted, no, needed, a beer. Even the thought of it had a calming effect. I got up, crossed the street and wandered into the little Depanneur.

Peering through the foggy window of the beer cooler, I saw that the shopkeeper kept a very well-stocked supply of beers – many of which weren’t even available across the bridge in Ottawa. “Hmmm, different brands, even different sizes,” I thought, “he’s got beers twice the size of the little brown stubbies I get back home.” I pulled out one of the very large Labatt’s 50’s and asked, “Combien coûte cette bière monsieur?” The proprietor looked up from his newspaper, and replied, “La Gros Cinquante? Un dollar soixante-quinze.” I gave him a two-dollar bill, asked him to crack it open for me and put it in a paper bag, and said, “Gardez la monnaie.” He smiled and nodded as I walked out with my stress antidote.

Back on the bench in the park, I swilled my Gros Cinquante, from a brown-paper bag, and pondered my two futures – itinerant unemployable hobo, or functional cog in “the machine”.  I felt the calming effects of the beer and a slow return to normal as this “hair of the dog” worked its magic. In short order my stress level had subsided enough for a good inspirational pep talk, “Snap out of it, asshole, and get back to work…you got this.”

I chugged the last dregs of beer for fortification – and because I liked beer – and headed back to my cubicle. I waved at Paul as I walked in, smiling, pointed to my watch and gave him the sign for “5 more minutes”, poked my head in Michelle’s doorway (her elevated status gave her an office with a door), and told her that I just had to deal with a few staff issues – such as assembling some work for Chantale, before seeing her – and then, plunked myself back at my desk to filter through files, dockets, assorted correspondence and letters to hand out to my crew of six writers. While sorting through the stack, with workloads and overall urgency in mind, I came across the same file I was looking at when this whole imbroglio began, “Ah yes,” I thought to myself, with wry humour, “Judy Erola is missing her period.”

Rather than sending it off for a complete time-consuming and costly redo, I grabbed a sharp pencil, lifted the onion skin sheet and placed a firm little period at the end of the offending typewritten sentence. I marked it “APPROVED” and stuck it in the Outbox to be sent, without further delay, to the distressed family-in-waiting.