It was a beautiful friday afternoon as we stepped out of the office tower, a hot breeze wafting to our noses the scent of trees laden with brilliant white and pink flowers, their pedals littering the ground below. Overhead, a bright, blue-grey sky was pocked with puffs of white clouds, the seeds of the thunderheads which would loom dark in the eastern sky that evening.
Stepping into the sunlight, we passed a line of dark red mailboxes standing like sentinels against a wall of rough, pink granite. As we rounded the corner, I looked up to see the sign for Scotia place, the red text advertising the various services provided therein:
Now that’s what I call service!
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