Charon swore. The monitor he had been battling with for the last hour had flickered off yet again and had now filled the area with the smell of burnt plastic. “Typical.” He crawled under the desk and fought with the mass of wire that inevitably develops behind the desk of even the most fastidious of us. Eventually, he found the correct lead and followed it to the power socket. It had melted. Struggling to his feet he picked up the telephone and hit one of the autodial keys. “Yes. It’s the front desk. Again. Put me through to IT please.” He waited for ten minutes on hold, listening to a very tinny, off-tempo, instrumental version of Rhinestone Cowboy on a loop while grinding his teeth.