THE FIFTY-THIRD PAGE

The greatest blessing was the publisher who chose me. It was one of the last of the old-fashioned publishers, who had not been transformed by multiple mergers into a 5,000-piece jigsaw puzzle that could not be put together for smooth operation.

The offices would have been nondescript had they not been so grubby. After delivering some of my reading work to them, I sometimes felt the need of a bath. You would not want your child or pet to frolic on the linoleum-crusted floors. I am told that there are still certain London publishers whose offices resemble the stables that once they were. No self-respecting horse would have entered the rooms of my publisher.

But there was good with the bad. Most of the employees had offices for themselves and were not required to camp out in glassy cubicles. The rickety elevators were attended, although one wondered what the attendant would have done in the event of a crash, which seemed all too possible.

The water was probably safe to drink, as it was bottled and always available for consumption from a paper cup. It had not made a long and possibly dangerous journey through ancient pipes no doubt conjoined with wastes running another direction.

From whence came the supplies for a business operation thriving in a post-World War II environment?