One of the unfortunate side effects of rising in the ranks is the introduction to the murky world of meetings. A cursory look at my Outlook Calendar is all I need for my heart to be engulfed with despair.

My personal preference when it comes to meetings is not to have them at all. And if we have to have them, let them be brief and to the point. Of course the problem is that people who enjoy meetings have very generous interpretations of the ideas of “short” and “to the point”.

Angst in the feeling I get when assorted individuals show up, pens, paper and notebooks in hand, ready for their fix of meeting. I have tried all manner of passive resistance including carrying nothing at all into meetings, but needless to say my compatriots are unmoving and unmoved.

It is an especially bad sign to see people carrying laptops and such into meetings and proceeding to open them up. This generally means that there will be several breaks of several minutes while desperate attempts are made to open spreadsheets that graphically display fascinating statistics, like 3 out of every 4 people consist of 75% of the population.

There is always the hope of a light scandal when a forgetful presenter opens a browser and then clicks the address bar to type HSBC.com. After hitting the first H the browser, ever eager to please, promptly drops down a lengthy list of recently visited sites that start with H, and among them is something looking suspiciously like hotcat.com.

In this era of flash disks, chances of embarrassment can grow exponentially. Some weeks ago a chap proudly brought the flash disk containing his presentation and merrily plugged it in to my laptop. Windows Vista, for those yet to experience it, takes the idea of large icons and thumbnails to extreme lengths. So our friend’s flash-disk happily mounted and automatically opened in explorer. Without wasting time, Vista happily chugged through the contents of the flash disk and generated enormous thumbnails of the assorted movie clips and JPEGs in said folder. I motioned urgently to the distracted chap who was having a side conversation off the the side but no cigar.

Vista ruthlessly chomped through all the rich, multimedia content on the flash disk and generated enormous thumbnails on the screen which were promptly relayed via a projector to the large projector screen where stunned attendees to the meeting took in the rich collection of thumbnails, involving a pair of individuals in, at first glance, physically impossible positions engaged in activities that are encouraged to be restricted to the institution of matrimony, and even then, behind the privacy of locked doors.

When the chap turned, and his horrified eyes took in the tableau, he provided ample demonstration that contrary to popular belief, we men of Negroid disposition with rich, dark, chocolaty skin actually can blush.

Or this a meeting I had not too long ago. A small meeting, just 10 or so of us. We were seated at 3 (meeting was scheduled for 2) and the host, naturally, was late. We were about to pack it in when there was a commotion at the door and the host burst powerfully into the room. On his face was a benevolent smile. On his lips a hearty greeting. On the front of his trousers was a conspicuous stain. Spilling from the top of his trousers was his ample stomach apparatus and shirt tails.

The source of his good cheer, I discovered shortly after he sat down at my elbow, was not his inherent good nature. It was,to be precise, East Africa Breweries Limited of Ruaraka, Nairobi. He had found himself urgently in need of the “crisp, clean bite” offered by Smirnoff Black ice and had partaken of a very liquid lunch. I may have suspected it initially but I confirmed it the instant he clapped a heavy arm around my elbow and bellowed a greeting in my face. The alcohol in his breath watered my eyes and disinfected my face.

The warm, moist, alcohol laced breath tried and failed to hide the fact whatever lunch he had had, its constituent parties were obscured by the powerful presence of onions and garlic.

In capacity of meeting chair, I rallied my forces and tried to make the best of a bad situation. I had just opened the proceeding and was moving a motion for confirmation of previous minutes to be carried out when our host let out, in a rich baritone, a stentorian belch that shook the rafters and sent birds in a nearby tree fleeing for safety.

I pride myself as a man that can weather storms but it took me all of five seconds to rally my forces and soldier on with a brisk introduction, issuing threats of physical violence to any of the muscles and brain cells that are stakeholders in the activities of laughter.

I then asked if anyone had any objections to the previous meeting’s minutes. Our host’s objection was difficult to misconstrue.  A sound reminiscent of that of a canvas sail tearing issued noisily from the region in the neighborhood of the seat of his trousers.

The sound seemed to go on for hours. The birds in the tree outside that had returned now fled for good, diving swiftly for the ground in an attempt to avoid what they were sure was anti-aircraft machine gun fire. The window panes rattled. And as if to confirm our worst fears, assorted pungent gaseous compounds of sulphur wafted over us like waves of troops storming the Normandy Beaches.

A wise man knows when he is defeated. Throwing the tradition of captains going down with the ship to the windows I muttered a quick excuse and on winged feet made for the exit.

I pride myself on the fact that the door had fully closed behind me before the Katrina of laughter welling up inside burst forth with venom and I laughed myself to tears.

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