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Press, 11 December 1982, Page 25

Random reminder

LOST PROPERTY OFFICE

The man who walked in the door of the land agency was not the sort of customer you would want to sit next to on the bus. Red rimmed eyes and filthy fingernails, no shave that morning and an expression which while not actually disgruntled was far from gruntled.

The Senior Person withdrew. “The Press” was waiting. One day, he knew, he would be able to read straight through the crossword clues and fill in several. Until that day he would dunk his gingernuts and dream. The next Most Senior Person made to speak, but as no one was looking at him he changed his mind. Taking care not to rattle his cup, he eased shut his office door. The Third Most Senior Person would have handled things, but since her parents were neither land agents nor lawyers, she had to be out earning a living. For the same reason, she was bright enough to do well. Never let it be said that the Universe is unfair.

The office staff were naturally intelligent and full of initiative, but that nonsense had soon been knocked out of them at Umbledean Girls High School and now they quite enjoyed working in a land agents and reading kilograms of whatever it is that really grown-up women read.

Minutes passed. The Junior Person arrived back from the post office. The Senior Person buzzed discreetly. Has he gone yet? hissed the Senior Person. No, said the Junior Person. The man was studying propeties on display, scratching what looked like an insect bite.

“Get rid of him,” hissed the Senior Person, which was quite an achievement since the sentence consisted of not a

single sibilant, “How?” asked the Junior. “I don’t care," said the Senior, “but I don’t want him here when McPhersonSnoodely arrives”. “All right,” said the Junior, she took up the car keys and approached the man.

“Good morning, Sir. Something about that price range? What had you in mind?”

The Junior Person departed with the man and was gone for the rest of the morning. When she came back she was smiling. Nobody else was smiling. The "Press” crossword had been impossible. They had run out of gingernuts. And McPherson-Snoodely had not arrived. “You’ve been an age,” they grumped. “Where did you drop the derelict? At the Salvation Army?” “No.” she replied. “At Hypoid Motors. He hit a fallen branch at 110 km last night, burst a brake line, had to sleep in the car, and got-towed in this morning." Respect sparked in their eyes. Esteem lifted their shoulders. Obviously he had money. Where was he now? Gone home. Oh. Their eyes ceased to sparkle. Their shoulders took up the normal slump. They looked impatiently at their watches. Where the devil was this fellow McPherson-Snoodely? “I just told you,” said the Junior. “On his way back home. He only wanted the Argyle estate, the Bloom Street warehouse, the Crummin block, Dimbleby Apartments and the Eagle subdivision. Which I sold him.”

She smiled sweetly at the Senior Partners. “Mr McPherson-Snoodely says how sorry he was to miss you. He could see how busy you were.”