Who bagged my scissors?

Medan Mad Men i alla fall ändå inte börjar nån himla gång tycker jag att ni ska kolla in det snygga bildspelet på reklambyråer från 60-talet som finns på Adweek här. Dessutom kan ni som inte redan gjort det även ta tillfället i akt att läsa Mördande Reklam av Dorothy Sayers, Mad Men innan Mad Men var uppfunnet fast brittiskt och oändligt mycket mer witty. Dessutom förlagt i the rolling 20's.

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Relaterat:
Jag brukar bedöma mina arbetsplatser utifrån hur mycket de liknar Mr. Pyms reklambyrå i Mördande Reklam. Inte så att jag väldigt gärna vill att någon går och trillar utför en järntrappa och slår ihjäl sig, specifikt, utan jag vill att det ska vara i så stor utsträckning som möjligt som de här två utdragen:

“Hullo, angels!” said Miss Rossiter, brightly. “Miss Meteyard's going to draw for us. And there's a new copy-writer coming.”
The bulky young man glanced up to say “Poor devil!” and retreated again into his book.
“Bob for the wreath and sixpence for the sweep,” went on Miss Rossiter, scrabbling in a tin cash-box. “Has anybody got two shillings for a florin? Where's your list, Parton? Scratch Miss Meteyard off, will you? Have I had your money, Mr. Garrett?”
“No money till Saturday,” said the Wodehouse-reader.
“Hark at him!” cried Miss Parton, indignantly. “You'd think we were millionaires, the way we have to finance this department.”
“Pick me a winner,” replied Mr. Garrett, “and you can knock it off the prize-money. Hasn't that coffee come yet?”
“Have a look, Mr. Jones,” suggested Miss Parton, addressing the gentleman on the door-post, “and see if you can see the boy. Just check these runners over with me, duckie. Meteor Bright, Tooralooral, Pheidippides II, Roundabout—”
“Roundabout's scratched,” said Mr. Jones. “Here's the boy just coming.”
“Scratched? No, when? What a shame! I put him down in the Morning Star competition. Who says so?”
“Evening Banner lunch special. Slip in the stable.”
“Damn!” said Miss Rossiter, briefly. “There goes my thousand quid! Oh, well, that's life. Thank you, sonnie. Put it on the table. Did you remember the cucumber? Good boy. How much? One-and-five? Lend me a penny, Parton. There you are. Mind out a minute, Mr. Willis, do you mind? I want a pencil and rubber for the new bloke.”
“What's his name?”
“Bredon.”
“Where's he come from?”
“Hankie doesn't know. But Miss Meteyard's seen him. She says he's like Bertie Wooster in horn-rims.”
“Older, though,” said Miss Meteyard. “A well-preserved forty.”
“Oh, gosh! When's he coming?”
“'Smorning. If I'd been him I'd have put it off till tomorrow and gone to the Derby. Oh, here's Mr. Ingleby. He'll know. Coffee, Mr. Ingleby? Have you heard anything?”
“Star of Asia, Twinkletoes, Sainte-Nitouche, Duke Humphrey....”
“Forty-two,” said Mr. Ingleby. “No sugar, thanks. Never been in advertising before. Balliol.”[Pg 7]
“Golly!” said Miss Meteyard.
“As you say. If there is one thing more repulsive than another it is Balliolity,” agreed Mr. Ingleby, who was a Trinity man.

“Bredon went to Balliol
And sat at the feet of Gamaliel,”

chanted Mr. Garrett, closing his book.

“And just as he ought
He cared for nought”

added Miss Meteyard. “I defy you to find another rhyme for Balliol.”
“Flittermouse, Tom Pinch, Fly-by-Night....”

“And his language was sesquipedalial.”

“It isn't sesquipedalial, it's sesquipedalian.”
“Bother!”
“Twist those papers up tight, duckie. Put them in the lid of the biscuit-tin. Damn! that's Mr. Armstrong's buzzer. Stick a saucer over my coffee. Where's my note-book?”
“....two double-faults running, so I said....”
“....I can't find the carbon of that Magnolia whole-treble....”
“....started at fifty to one....”
“Who's bagged my scissors?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Armstrong wants his Nutrax carbons....”
“....and shake 'em up well....”
“....hail you all, impale you all, jail you all....”
“Mr. Ingleby, can you spare me a moment?”
At Mr. Hankin's mildly sarcastic accents, the scene dislimned as by magic. The door-post drapers and Miss Parton's bosom-friend melted out into the passage, Mr. Willis, rising hurriedly with the tray of carbons in his hand, picked a paper out at random and frowned furiously at it, Miss Parton's cigarette dropped unostentatiously to the floor, Mr. Garrett, unable to get rid of his coffee-cup, smiled vaguely and tried to look as though he had picked it up by accident and didn't know it was there, Miss Meteyard, with great presence of mind, put the sweep counterfoils on a chair and sat on them, Miss Rossiter, clutching Mr. Armstrong's carbons in her hand, was able to look businesslike, and did so. Mr. Ingleby alone, disdaining pretence, set down his cup with a slightly impudent smile and advanced to obey his chief's command.

Oj, det blev jättelångt. I morgon får ni veta vilket det andra utdraget är, samt även i bästa fall en rangordnad lista över hur arbetsplatserna rankat in sig på denna lista.