The office air twitches with Wotsit dust and the residual heat from your pencil.
Somewhere, in amongst the lazy fluff and the quite-good ideas that you haplessly twisted into something grotesque, there is a great line.
Then your treacherous brain convinces you that a line this good could only have been stolen.
You rifle through the bulging notepads marked ‘Great Ideas I Will Definitely Steal at Some Point’.
Lynx Voodoo increasingly seems like a bad choice.
Someone else helpfully suggests that you shut the hell up and show them the line.