IT was a lazy, late November afternoon. The noise of the traffic hummed up from the street below, and the sun poured through the window like rye whisky into a shot glass.
It was the kind of day that merged with many other similar ones until, before you knew it, there were three days before the fat man in the red suit visited with a ''ho, ho, ho''.
Suddenly, the door swung open. A tall, slender woman draped in wool and ermine and dripping with pearls took her place. She had an air about her, like she was from another age.
She tapped a cigarette nervously on a silver case.
She took quick, short steps towards my desk and sat at the edge of the chair before it. Her eyes flirted with mine, but her lips were pursed.
I stood up and said: ''Come in. And while you're at it you might as well have a seat.'' She gave me that sideways glance that always makes schoolboys blush. I didn't.