I'm experimenting with some infra-red remote reboot hardware when the pimply-faced-youth wanders in.
"Who's that?" he asks, pointing at some besuited individual in the next office.
The face seems vaguely familiar, then the ball drops ...
"Something to do with personnel," I reply. "One of those huggy-feely types into team-building and customer expectation, if I remember rightly."
"Our customers already know what to expect!"
"Yes. That could be the problem ..."
"The boss is being a bit brown-nosey," the PFY observes, as the boss welcomes Mr Huggy.
"Yes, and judging by the crawl-factor, I'd say he's been got at from above ..."
Two hours later the PFY sprints in.
"There's something you should know," he says.
"What? You've not been eavesdropping on the boss have you?"
"No, just checking the connectivity of his spare UTP lines. True, the test device has good aural response."
"All right, what is it?" I interrupt.
"They're setting up a divisional retreat!" he blurts.
"A Bloody what!?" I shout, losing composure for a second.
"A divisional retreat. It's not that bad really, is it?" he asks.
"You're joking aren't you? A weekend locked away in team-building hell with people who think that a benchmark comes from not using a doily under your coffee mug?"
"They have client representatives there to annoy you night and day with lame questions like, 'How do you justify your fault resolution policy?'"
"How do we justify it?"
"We don't. Accidental equipment combustion is a proven and documented phenomenon."
"So what are we going to do?"
"Not go. Unless, of course, you look forward to 'Trust' exercises, where you fall backwards into the arms of a group of people who have trouble catching a cold without written instructions."
"Apparently, it's compulsory - or at least the contracting bonus is dependent on attendance."
"The sneaky bastards!"
"So what do we do?" the PFY asks.
"First things first - when is it?"
"Three weeks from Saturday."
We put our heads together and formulate a battle plan so sneaky it would make Rommel weep. The next day we're the first to inform the boss that we'd be delighted to attend. He breaks open a new roll of antacid tablets.
The PFY handles the fax-interception, reducing the 45 single-room accommodation bookings to 10, changes the food budget to alcohol and swaps the light jazz-band evening entertainment to a popular Soho Cabaret act ...
I borrow Mr Huggy's credit card - carelessly locked in the visiting staff office - rewrite the personal info track with "Stolen card - Detain", then crank the rumour mill into action by leaving empty, alcohol-based cough syrup bottles in his rubbish bin at nights. I then swap his laptop power adaptor for a dud.
The next day, the offensive begins ...
"There seems to be something wrong with my adaptor," Mr Huggy says in a surly manner. Apparently, being detained at a garage for an hour by a burly mechanic until his credit card could be verified didn't improve his sense of humour.
The PFY gets him a heavier duty replacement and a loud >CRACK!< later, Mr Huggy walks back in, smelling of smoke.
"Oh dear!" I cry. "The PFY didn't give you a step-UP transformer by accident, did he? I'll tell you what, we'll sort you out with the emergency 386 until your machine is repaired. Four meg should be OK for Windows 95, shouldn't it?"
"Oh, the one with the new infra-red mouse you mean?" the PFY asks.
The next day, the boss gets involved after he receives the query from the bean counters about Mr Huggy's proposed alcohol bill. The rubbish rumours have filtered through by this stage and once he finds out about the cabaret team, the boss calls the PFY and me into his office.
"Have you had anything to do with this?" he asks.
The PFY and I shake our heads.
"Personally," I add, "I've heard the rumours and I think perhaps he's a little too unstable to be doing team management activities."
The seeds of doubt planted, I wait for the PFY to do a bit of fertilisation and watering ...
"Is it just me, or is it hot in the office?" the PFY asks, right on cue.
"Yes, I'm a little hot myself," I reply.
The boss leaps to his latest favourite toy, the air conditioning remote, and adjusts the temperature for us, thus rebooting Mr Huggy's machine for about the third time this morning. We all watch in silence as Mr Huggy pushes his replacement machine off the desk in a fit of madness, then starts taking his office apart.
Ten minutes later, security has carted him away and retreat plans are in the bin where they belong.
And they say that life isn't fair.