Sunday Is Just An Expression

I like working on Sundays because there's usually no one around to bother you. I got through the Sugar Factory's main gate unmolested and walked along the ice-caked alleys to our building at the far end of the lot. Inside a little notch in the vestibule stairway is the building's security guard. I only have a key to the editing room door, which is a full two doors beyond the guard. So I need to communicate with him enough to convince him that I work here. Phoenetically; "Ya montage va KinoTraffic. Kloochy eta...eta...door." That worked enough.

The Security Guard put down his boiled potato and let me in. The maroon blinds of the main office area suffuse the room in a crimson light.


And as hoped, the place is deserted. But after an hour or two I"m starved, and I've forgotten a nosh. I scavenger around and finally remember that I had been given a small welcome gift of Russian chocolate and that I had secreted it into my backpack. I dug it out and, well, the rest of the tale is even more mundane than the start.


But the chocolate was great.