Copyright 16/6/2013 by Raymond Daley
Martin Mortonsons desk was piled high with paper. Each pile towered far above his head. Each piece was gradually working its way out of a slowly decreasing stack to be read and given its eventual fate. That fate would either be to move into the ever growing pile marked OUT or the place where all bad copy went – the large steel spike at the edge of the wooden desk.
The intercom buzzed, Mortonson flicked the switch to answer. “What? I'm busy!”
“Sorry sir, it's him again. He insists on seeing you now. You know how he gets.” It was his secretary Sandra from the outer office. She expertly shielded Mortonson from those employees he'd rather not deal with, this was a task she generally excelled at. Some were more persistent than others. Like Herb.
“Send him in. We'll see what it is this time.” Mortonson was growing sick of Herb and his constant visits.
The office door opened to a hint of lilac perfume as Sandra permitted entry. “Go right in” she said, corralling the irate employee safely and quickly through her domain into the next room where he was no longer her problem.
Mortonson looked up at the person in front of him, trying to project a façade of disinterested curiosity. “Herb! Good to see you again!” This, of course, was a complete lie. As were most of the things Mortonson said during the course of his working day. Thus was the life of an Advertising Executive during the Golden Age Of Radio.