draliman on life

Picture the scene. You’re working away, you’ve just had a great idea and you’re struggling to bring it to fruition. You’re so close, when suddenly…

…there’s someone hanging off your shoulder pestering you for something which only you can provide.

You’ve lost your train of thought! Your mojo’s gone! You were so close to discovering the deepest secrets of the universe, or at least to making Excel do that split-screen thing, and you’ve lost it all because “the printer’s making a funny noise” or “my monitor’s gone all funny”.

There are some tricks you can use to alleviate some of these interruptions:

• Use a flag system – your flag can say anything from “Please talk to me!” through “Important conversations only!” to “Busy – feck off!”
• Make it clear that you can only be disturbed during set times
• Build a reputation in the office for being a mean, unapproachable git

Come with me now on a journey – a journey into a typical office environment, where we will be a fly on the wall. Let us observe just how damaging a badly-timed interruption can be!

A badly-timed interruption

Pablo, top enforcer for the notorious Muertos gang, barely had time to register the impact of the bullets ripping through his body before the darkness claimed him. He experienced a curious sense of drifting before, with a sound like a clap of thunder, he found himself standing on a small rocky island in the midst of what, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a sea of lava.

So this is the afterlife, he thought. The sky was an ugly shade of red, shot through with frequent flashes of lightning. The heat emanating from the lava was making it hard to breathe. The smell of sulphur was making him sick. Looking around, he got the distinct impression that sitting on a cloud playing a harp was not in his future. Pablo had done some pretty horrific things in his life and evidently after he’d died he’d gone to “the other place”.

With yet another clap of thunder, a monstrosity appeared. Big, red, horns and a forked tail. The very cliché of a demon. It spoke, its voice loud, booming, all-encompassing.

“I AM GROZLAAKK! I AM YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE! HERE YOU WILL KNOW THE TRUE MEANING OF PAIN. WITH PLIERS SHALL I TEAR YOUR TONGUE FROM YOUR MOUTH! WITH HOT POKERS SHALL I BURN YOUR EYES FROM THEIR SOCKETS! WITH WHITE-HOT HOOKS SHALL I can see you hovering over there, Trokkle, what is it now?”

A much shorter version of Grozlaakk had suddenly appeared. Trokkle carried a notepad and a pair of half-moon spectacles was perched precariously on the end of his nose.

“So sorry to disturb, oh Unspeakable One,” grovelled Trokkle, “but your eleven o’clock is stuck in traffic. He wishes to push your meeting on to twelve.”

“Remind me?”

“Your landscape architect, oh Magnificent Giver of Pain. He’s re-igniting your lava pond, replacing the tortured soul garden ornaments and installing the gazebo for your weekend garden party.”

“Ah yes,” said Grozlaakk, recollection showing on his hideously demonic face. “Twelve will be fine. You will need to order in lunch.”

“Of course, oh Hideous Denizen of the Lava Wastes, I shall repair to the Demonic Deli immediately. Your usual, Sir? Cucumber sandwiches?”

“That will be perfect, Trokkle. But ensure that THE CRUSTS ARE CUT OFF THIS TIME!”

“I’m sure the survivors of the last mistake have got the message, Sir.”

“Now, where was I?” said Grozlaakk, turning back to Pablo (who was staring at the pair, somewhat confused).

“You were about to let me go?” asked Pablo hopefully.

“How amusing! Isn’t he amusing, Trokkle?” said Grozlaakk.

“Most amusing, Sir,” replied the demonic little secretary.

“Ah, yes, I remember. WITH WHITE-HOT HOOKS SHALL I RIP THE INTESTINES FROM YOUR STILL WARM BODY…”