Estimated reading time at 200 wpm: 6 minutes
You remember Tarek – a man whose mind was as sharply tailored as his bespoke suits, and managed empires like some sort of AI running a neural network. His days were a symphony of high-stakes decisions, seamless IT infrastructure, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing exactly where every single widget was at any given moment. He was, in short, everything Jane and Rob were not. As you may recall the three were mates from college days. Tarek keeps in touch with them cuz it helps his understanding of human nature, for one arm of his business; selling self-help materials to the ‘hopeful’.
Whether or not you agree our Fat Disclaimer applies
So, Tarek visits Jane and Rob again – and this is what went on.
Jane and the Digital Abyss
You must remember Jane, that bona fide Gen Y marvel, a perfectly curated Instagram feed. Her life was a whirlwind of social engagements, specialty coffee that tasted vaguely of artisanal regret, and regular declarations of being utterly exhausted. Today, her exhaustion had a digital edge.
“Tarek,” she began, her voice a delicate sigh, “my laptop is, like, totally glitching. It’s just… frozen. Again. I’m so exhausted from trying to make it work.“
Tarek, ever the pragmatist, leaned in slightly. “Hmm. Is it plugged into the power outlet?“
Jane blinked, her perfectly sculpted brows furrowing. “Oh, Tarek, I’m not a physicist. I don’t understand the flow of electrons or whatever arcane magic makes these things work. It’s just… dead. Like my will to live on a Monday morning.“
Tarek nodded slowly. “Right. Did you try restarting it?“
“Restarting?” Jane’s eyes widened, as if he’d suggested performing open-heart surgery with a spork. “Like, turning it off and on again? Tarek, I’m not an IT expert. That sounds incredibly technical. What if it, like, breaks more? What if it, like, deletes all my unposted brunch photos? I just can’t risk it. I’m too tired.“
“Is the screen completely black,” Tarek pressed gently, “or is there a message displayed?“
“A message?” Jane waved a dismissive hand, adorned with several minimalist rings. “I’m not, like, a linguist or a code decipherer. It’s just… words. Probably something about ‘fatal error’ or ‘Windows needs to update’ or something equally cryptic and aggressive. Honestly, the audacity of these machines to demand my attention when I’m already this exhausted.“
Tarek suppressed a sigh that would have registered on a Richter scale. And I’m not a miracle worker, he thought, but here we are, staring into the digital abyss of a dead battery.
Rob and the Rustic Relic of a Business
Later that week, Tarek again found himself amidst the fragrant chaos of ‘Rob’s Rustic Relics,’ a bespoke ornament business. You remember Rob? The indefatigable proprietor, was a man perpetually buried under a mountain of invoices, splintered wood, and the furious emails of customers whose handcrafted gnome statues had arrived with chipped hats.
“Tarek, mate,” Rob boomed, wiping sawdust from his brow, “this business is absolutely killing me! Invoices everywhere, gnomes with chipped hats, it’s a blooming nightmare!“
Tarek surveyed the scene, a landscape of artistic ambition and administrative anarchy. “Right. How do you track your inventory of raw materials, like wood, paint, and those tiny little gnome hats?“
Rob scoffed, gesturing vaguely at a pile of timber. “Inventory? Tarek, I’m not a logistics manager. I just, you know, buy wood when I run out. Or, more accurately, when I trip over it. It’s a very organic system.”
“And your finished products?” Tarek continued, stepping carefully around a half-painted fairy house. “How do you know how many gnomes you have ready to ship, or which ones have already been promised?“
“Well, I’m not a statistician, am I?” Rob declared, throwing his hands up. “I just… count them. Sometimes. When I can see the floor. And I’m definitely not a cleanliness expert either, if you’re wondering. It’s all part of the rustic charm, you see.“
Tarek, unfazed, picked up a precarious stack of crumpled paper. “Do you have a system for managing your customer orders and tracking payments? And perhaps the complaints about the aforementioned chipped hats?“
Rob paled slightly. “System? Tarek, I’m not a financial advisor or an accountant! I just shove the money in a shoebox and hope for the best. And the emails? Mate, I’m not a typist, so replying to all those chipped hat complaints is just… too much. I’m an artist, not a bureaucrat!“
Tarek nodded, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. And I’m not a therapist, he mused internally, but I’m certainly getting a masterclass in the art of professional helplessness. He wondered if there was a market for bespoke gnome-hat repair kits. Probably not. Rob would just say he wasn’t a hat-mender.
Tarek’s End of Day Diary
July 11th, 2025. 9:32 PM. Single Malt: Laphroaig 10, neat. Just the way I like my answers: direct, no chasers, unlike the intellectual molasses I’ve been wading through today!!
Another day, another descent into the baffling abyss of human disclaimers. First, Jane. The woman who can meticulously curate an entire digital life but apparently lacks the fundamental courage to plug in a laptop or, heaven forbid, press a power button. “I’m not a physicist,” she declared, as if basic electricity were quantum mechanics. And “I’m not an IT expert,” she wailed, when presented with the radical concept of “turn it off and on again.” One wonders how she manages to tie her shoelaces without first consulting a podiatrist or a knot-tying specialist. Perhaps she just wears slip-ons, claiming she’s “not a bow-tying expert.” The sheer exhaustion of her existence seems to be directly proportional to her unwillingness to engage with reality.
Then there was Rob. Bless his rustic, chaotic heart. His business, ‘Rob’s Rustic Relics,’ is less a business and more a monument to the triumph of artistic spirit over rudimentary organisation. “I’m not a logistics manager,” he announced, as if tracking inventory required a degree from MIT. And “I’m not a statistician,” he bellowed, when asked about counting his gnomes. I suppose he simply waits for the gnomes to self-organise into neat piles and then, perhaps, sends him a memo. And the shoebox accounting system? A stroke of genius, really. Why bother with ledgers when you have a perfectly good shoebox and the unwavering belief that money, like magic, simply appears and disappears as it pleases? He’s an artist, not a bureaucrat, you see. And I’m not a business consultant, but I’m fairly certain that’s why his gnomes have chipped hats and his customers have chipped tempers.
I’m not a therapist, but I’m starting to think this entire “I’m not an expert” phenomenon is less about humility and more about a profound, almost artistic, dedication to avoiding any form of personal responsibility. It’s a verbal shield, deflecting even the most basic common sense. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll encounter someone who claims they’re “not an oxygen expert” and refuses to breathe. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Sip. The Laphroaig understands. It never claims to be anything it’s not. Just pure, unadulterated peat smoke.
