The last twenty-five minutes of the working day are a curious time. This is that time of day when all of the copy typing has been done, all the expense forms have been redeemed, all the errands have been run, and the only sound remaining is the buzz of the newsroom as we all get closer to deadline time.

A lot can happen in twenty-five minutes. The thing that I dread is that phone call at two minutes to four from someone experiencing mental difficulties and extreme hardship. When these calls come, as they invariably due, there is nothing you can do but sit and listen while the people vent. This is usually all that is required, but I once took one where it wasn’t clear what the person wanted from us, and she kept talking in circles for about fifteen minutes, after which time I gently told her that she might like to write a letter to the editor.

Zappo. This set her right off on another rant, about the type of incompetent dingbats that this newspaper is hiring to answer its phone. Fair enough, I thought. I couldn’t and can't think of anyone competent to answer the class of phone call that this person represented.

Of course, the other thing that happens is people will present to reception, wanting an audience with someone from the paper. What these people need to realize is that the amount of time they spend waiting is in inverse proportion to whatever coverage we may be able to give them.

Once upon a time, at about three forty five in the afternoon, this graying American fronted up with a gorgeous young assistant, who I later found out was his wife. He wanted to tell me about an alien-human hybrid that he had discovered, and proceeded to reach for a brown cardboard box that he had placed on the coffee table out in the lobby. I had this moment of pure existential dread: was he actually going to show me the Skull of the Star Child? He was. He wanted to talk for awhile after that, but I told him that the only thing I needed to know was where and when the event was.

I grabbed a couple of mates and a six pack of beer and went along to the lecture.

The man had detailed Talking Points on the Star Child, and was more than a little defensive about what he called ‘received scientific wisdom.’ Outside, his young wife was selling books, audio CDs of the talk, and DVDs, starting at twenty five dollars a pop. There’s that number again. Twenty five. Hmmm. I shall have to consult my numerologist about this. There may be something in it.