Episode 1: The Phantom Squirrel.

Coma.

Punctuating the week rather depressingly is my firm belief that I was a royal screw-up at an important presentation last night. Ah, the preparations. The writing. The re-writing. The setting aside of work we really should have submitted last week. The 2am shopping for decent clothes at Mustafa. The butchers, the bakers, the candle-stick makers. The works.

And I made it all un-happen.

Nothing spectacular like gracefully snorting water out my nose into the eye of the panel, mind. Mr Ancob says I did very well. I suspect he's lying. It was a very classic "My Bad".

Guilty as charged. Of...looking too young to be taken seriously.

It's true. I just can't pull off that look. You'd think two hours of trying on stuff would get me the Professional Writer image I was trying to project. Imagine a squirrel stuffed into a tuxedo. With a serious expression. That about sums it up. Mr Ancob's initial words were "high school kid going to prom". Be still, my bleeding heart.

Lovely thing, hindsight. It very probably didn't help that I was the one managing the laptop set-up. I was "The Computer Guy". I could have lived with that. The laptop welcomed the projector connector with tea and biscuits and all was well.

For about five seconds. Through what could only have been divine intervention, Miss Fujitsu Lifebook decided she didn't appreciate the...intercourse with the projector, and clammed up like a virgin oyster. I pleaded with her. Promised her it would only hurt a little, and only at first. Ran my fingers delicately across her sensitive touchpad, which she always loved. Nothing.

Fine. We settle upon swivelling her gently about. Being Asian, Miss Fujitsu was a lovely lady, but not too well endowed. We figured a 13-inch display beat having nothing. Wounded but far from defeated, we proceed to continue telling the panel why we were the best thing since sliced bread.

Three slides and a growing confidence later, Miss Fujitsu dies on us with the stomp of her dainty feet almost audible. "This can't be!" I cried. "The lovely, hour-long dinner we had meant nothing to you? You told me the voltage was excellent, and you'd enjoyed the meal! Your battery metre was three-quarters full!"

Because we'd charged her for an hour, it never occurred to me the laptop had died because of power. MrAncob, who adamantly insists he knows nothing about "DOS system" laptops, was the one to point out the possibility. A quick glance and...yes. She was empty. With no mirror in the room, I am unable to tell you the particular shade of red I quite probably turned as I scurried along my squirelly way to plug the laptop in. Demoted from "Computer Guy" to "That Boy", my benefit-of-doubt dignity levels fell. Sharply.

Miss Fujitsu, nose up high, announced she was ready for her...work. We ran a quick test with the projector to be sure it wasn't my childish incompetence that had the two not on speaking terms to begin with. Nope. They just weren't meant for each other. Let us ignore my very loud advice to Mr Ancob to tap the touchpad when he wanted the next slide. It worked for me the three times I ran the presentation through at the office. It worked for the said three slides, just. But it would be strung and quartered before it would work now. Fumbling with the mouse button produced sporadic results, which would have to do.

If it wasn't immediately apparent, whatever vague order in the presentation we had was gone. Wasted beyond twenty-five tequila shots at the bar. It was a bit of a surprise to me when Mr Ancob rewinded a little to the bit where I was supposed to speak a little. He'd covered due to my necessary scurrying. Flustered, I pinballed my way through what I remembered I was to say. At the point where the epileptic fit was to kick in and save me, Mr Ancob cleared his throat and said I was pre-empting him. I was? I thought I was supposed to cover this...wait. Where am I and what am I doing here? A few more false starts from me, and he smoothly takes over. Benefit-of-doubt dignity levels negative. Demoted to, oh I don't know, "Pond Scum".

He was wonderful. With the presentation on our part done, it was time for them to ask us questions! Mr Ancob parried and countered, every move flawlessly executed with the finesse only experience such as he had could provide. Our only other member of the team, the designer, had previously refused to talk. She wanted reassurance that she wouldn't have to, claiming all she was good for was doing work. Indeed, she sat quietly through the presentation, playing the part of ravishing beauty. We tense a little as a question specific to Design is fielded to her.

You could hear the crack of the whip as she snapped back with repartee. The member of the panel feigned dignified silence as he shut up. I must admit he played the part remarkably well. A lesser man such as myself would have stumbled, with "PUT IN HIS PLACE" branded across his forehead the way it was.

Myself, I'm surprised no one asked me to be a dear and get some coffee.

I've gone and done it again, turning something I'd meant as an introduction into a full-scale replay. For what it's worth, my penchant for drama has the whole thing blown out of proportion, so take it with that pinch of salt. It wasn't quite as bad as all that, but I did feel my utter inability to play the part I was supposed to had the thing doomed from the start. You can't get very far when one-third of your team looks like he swiped his dad's clothes for the occasion.

My yellow singlet and Levi's. Or death.