"We've really got a problem here," he chirps in a hunted manner as he paces my office.
"What's that?" I ask helpfully.
"The bloody network, it's a shambles!"
"Well I don't mean to rub salt into your wounds, but you probably should've let us do the planning. After all, that's what we're paid for."
"And what would you have done that was so different?" he demands offensively.
"Hmm..." the PFY cuts in, "I would have run some multi-pair plug looms of real Cat 5 (and not some cheap imitation) under the raised floors, and terminated them at the three outlet points that I'd have allocated per room."
"But that's what I proposed!" he blurts, realisation hitting him.
"Well actions do speak louder than words," I sigh. "Speaking of which, I believe there's a legal one heading your way real soon."
"What am I going to do," he wails in a voice very reminiscent of a user at disk defragmentation time.
"Well you could have the cabling replaced," I reply.
"Yes, you're right, I'll do that."
"Only its cable-tied every six inches inside a wall, and that means they'll have to partially demolish it to ..."
"That's no good!"
"Well then there's only plan B left."
"What is it?"
"You pay a one-time subscription to 'Bastard-Net Inc' and agree to large overtime bills. The problem will be gone by tomorrow and just a memory by next Wednesday."
"What's the subscription and where do I pay?" he blurts.
"Two hundred quid; the PFY and me."
Seeing the rock and hard place at close proximity once more, the boss reaches for his wallet.
The next day, security are combing the building for the eight office doors mysteriously stolen during the night. Strangely, the CCTV noted nothing but a rerun of The Beverley Hillbillies.
Network stability in the new offices is at an all-time high, except for when the head of PR (a heavily built gentleman who looks like he was poured into his clothes and forgot to say when) passes by. His popularity around those offices appears to be waning fast.
One week later, the sub-floor recable is completed and the PFY and I present our overtime sheets for approval.
"Hang on," the boss shouts. "168 hours? That's 24 hours a day for seven days!"
"We did work extremely hard," the PFY chips in.
"You can't seriously expect me to sign this," the boss says, ever so slightly annoyed.
"Of course not," I reply. "We'll just put the network back the way it was then. Oh, and I wonder ..."
"Wonder what?!" the boss snarls.
"Whose fingerprints were on that pile of stolen doors that security found ..."
"Tomorrow morning ..."
One autograph later, the PFY and I take the rest of the day off to recuperate from our stressful overtime.