I used to work at Social Services, circa the early eighties.
Even in those days there were cutbacks. No computers then, oh no. Most of us had manual typewriters.
There were two secretaries with electric machines; the rest would cast envious eyes, and the lucky recipients of such machines had been known to suffer a sly jab with a knitting needle during the lunchtime visit to the staff rest room.
I was delighted to take possession of the next available electric typewriter; no matter that the M no longer worked, cutbacks were cutbacks, and it was the best I was ever going to get.
One day I was in disgrace; a not unusual situation for me. I remember my supervisor, standing in front of my desk, determinted to make a point.
"If you have time to photocopy certain of your body parts I am sure you have time to type these meeting minutes for me. IMMEDIATELY.".
She turned on her heel; leaving me to start work. I began typing frantically in a bid to find my way back into favour.
Job done, I scurried to her desk and deposited my work with a puppy dog smile.
Within thirty seconds she was back, her large shadow looming over my desk. I remember that the tip of her nose was white with anger.
"I think you'll find that my name benefits from having the M in front of it."
I looked in dismay at the typing, full of uneven spaces, and looked sorrowfully up at her face, which was still bristling with indignation.
"I'm sorry Miss Manus. Truly I am."
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