My telephone receiver slams down on its cradle. I'm upset. I am soaked to the skin, sweat runs from my brow. The air conditioner that I so naively entrusted to the Yellow Pages Repair shop is delayed another two weeks.
I could have it back tomorrow, I was told, if I happen to have a compressor relief control valve sensor assembly, part number 3B25189927.4A, in my pocket. The repairman is a funny fellow.
"Its a bit stuffy in here," my secretary says, in an attempt to explain her entering my office. This is obvious of course as nary a breeze wafts through the three-foot square hole in my wall that appeared in synchronization with the air conditioner's disappearance. She goes to the thermostat, checks the temperature, and adjusts its setting for the fourth time this morning. Shaking my head in frustration, I again try to decipher the overdue report that is now blurred into illegibility by my sweat.
An excellent typist, she's the best secretary I've ever had. Completely fulfilling her secretarial duties, she otherwise keeps to herself. Although I am by nature a curious man, personal matters between us have never been discussed. However, with the increase in temperature, her attire has of late become remarkable as to its increasing skimpiness.
As to the hole in my wall, I have attempted to fill it with wadded papers and rags and such. This has proven ineffective, no thanks to the active flocks of nesting pigeons in the neighborhood.
Last spring I reeceived a bill from the local office supply. It was rather badly smeared, but I did notice something about furniture. A bill from the local office supply shop recently gave me a clue about my secretary's personal life.
Her more recent change to now quite revealing attire confirms my suspicions.
She obviously spends every non-working hour in thorough personal exploration of all things culinary.
In desperation, I reach for the phone.