“Mr. President, there is a very important call for you. While you take it, I will continue to write nonsense in my official-looking book.” And that how we “Played President.” It was really very simple. My sister Sylvie and I would drag our no-longer-functioning telephones into her room, and set up the Oval Office. While most kids around our ages of six and eight created make-believe lands with dragons, rainbows, and pots of gold, Sylvie and I just wanted to take dictation. And so we arranged our telephones in the corners of our desks next to stacks of fresh paper, on which we abolished child labor and world hunger, and lowered taxes if we had an extra half hour. We took turns acting as secretary and President, our elementary-school lessons of sharing well learned. Most impressive in this “game” was our level of efficiency. What’s that, Sylv–ahem, I mean Mr. President? Leo DiCaprio’s on the phone? We’ll set up a business lunch tomorrow. Mom just yelled that our sandwiches are ready.