Disgusted with spending more than an hour yesterday trying to get to the government before today, a second lobby trip was made at about 4:40 p.m. yesterday. (One letter in question was evidently in error.) While exactly how old someone is can be arguable, as one does exist before one is born, the accepted definition is someone’s day of birth. The very idea of getting to three-quarters of a century and spending time then trying to talk with someone in government is not yours truly’s idea of any kind of a birthday celebration.
It was cloudy, overcoat weather outside, and the thought that came was, “Was it this cloudy and cold that Sunday morning in 1936?” It might be something to look up sometime, not that it matters today. One of the things to disturb the meditative moment was departing staff. It must have been exactly 4:45 p.m. when the maintenance men marched out with the vim of people happily leaving. Not just them, but the cleaning lady, although at the lobby telephone, also had a coat on as if to leave. The office staff wasn’t there yet.
As mentioned at least once, the young people holding the place in operation leave, and a collection of wobbly old souls, rather like a nest of inmates, get along as possible until the staff (or emergency) shows up again. The place is somewhat institutional anyway; once the staff leaves, in a way it is more so. Once back upstairs with the string of doors in view, the thought became more pronounced. It’s a bad preliminary anytime. The day itself was little more than a run back and forth for computer connection to read “Happy Birthday.”
There are no special days at times.