[Ahh, that old, familiar sight. A hard-working individual at a desk, diligently filing through paperwork.]

[Or, perhaps not.]

[Indeed, at this particular mahogany writing desk, the 'hard-worker' in question is toying with what appears to be a model planet, suspended in mid air above the surface. His fingertip is sliding a small block over the surface of the globe like a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit in. It is, of course, all a hologram. Occasionally he mutters something vague under his breath, like:]

No, let's not build anything over Avril's caves. Heaven knows what she'll do to any poor undergraduate girls she can get her hands on.

[or perhaps:]

Could work. I'm not legally culpable if a griffin eats someone, anyway...

[Bach's Suite No 2 in B minor accompanies his musings, as does a cup of tea and a plate full of crumpets and Garibaldi biscuits. How tough it is to be Irving Braxiatel.]