"What custard, Janet?"

“Boss?”

“Yes, Janet?”

“Would you mind turning off the custard, please?”

“What custard, Janet?”

“This custard, boss,” says Janet, pointing up. Above her head, as above the head of every secretary in your wide open-plan office, there’s a small wormhole open onto a dimension of cold vanilla custard. It drizzles down onto her head, mats her hair, trickles over her face, creeps into her cleavage, infiltrates her bra, dampens her dress, crawls down her legs, seeps into her shoes and generally coats her from head to toe. When it hits the carpet, or anything else that’s not a woman or her clothing, it disappears. “One of the lemures must have left it on again.”

“I don’t have time to fix everything around here, Janet. Get back to your desk. I’ll have someone look at it in an hour or two.”

“...yes, boss.”