The Great Flap: A Developer’s Guide to Manufactured Urgency

There comes a point in every project when the calm façade begins to crack.

People start talking a bit faster, typing a bit louder, and suddenly there’s an air of impending doom.

That’s right — the Great Flap has begun.

You can almost feel it in the corridors (or Teams calls). The sense that if this particular bit of software isn’t live by Friday afternoon, civilisation as we know it will collapse. Cats and dogs living together. Total anarchy.

The Myth of the Deadline

It usually starts with someone saying, “We’ve got a tight deadline, but I’m sure we can make it if we all pull together.”

Ah yes. That old chestnut.

Because nothing motivates quite like the unspoken threat of collective disappointment.

The deadline, of course, was never realistic. It was set optimistically in a meeting some weeks ago by people who do not, and never will, understand what “refactoring a data model” actually means.

But now here we are, marching valiantly towards an impossible finish line, as if sheer willpower and a few motivational emails will somehow defy the laws of time and logic.

Software: The Slow Art

Here’s the thing. Software isn’t an emergency service. You can’t just switch on the sirens, shout “let’s go, team!” and expect miracles.

It’s an art form — slow, deliberate, and occasionally maddening.
It requires thought, patience, and the ability to spend three hours wondering why something doesn’t work, only to realise you missed a semicolon.

You don’t become an expert overnight. You don’t take a thousand vague requirements, a handful of “blue sky thinking” ideas, and end up with the digital equivalent of the Holy Grail.

But try explaining that to someone who thinks “agile” means “done by next week”.

Enter the Spreadsheet

No Great Flap is complete without the sacred text: the project spreadsheet.

Usually named something like:
ProjectPlan_FINAL_NEW_latest2(1)_USETHISVERSION.xlsx

Inside, you’ll find a riot of colour — red cells, amber cells, inexplicable greens — and formulas that worked perfectly on some long-forgotten project but now throw up #VALUE! errors.

There’ll be a tab called Risks with two items on it (“Christmas holidays” and “staff sickness”), and another called Lessons Learned which, naturally, is empty.

The Pushing Season

Then comes the pushing.
“Just one more sprint.”
“Just one last push.”
“We’re nearly there!”

We are not nearly there.

We are, in fact, somewhere between despair and déjà vu — that familiar territory where everyone’s pretending this time will be different.

Some developers push back. Others smile politely and get on with doing things properly, at their own quiet pace. Because we’ve all learned that panic doesn’t make software appear any faster. It just produces tired developers and broken code.

The Quiet Professionals

So, what do you do? You nod. You smile. You attend the daily stand-up, listen to the pep talks, and then quietly go back to your desk (or kitchen table) to do things the right way.

You focus on quality, on craft, on not being the person who signed off a bug-ridden disaster because someone shouted “urgent” enough times.

And when the inevitable happens — when the deadline slips, the panic subsides, and everyone suddenly decides it’s fine after all — you just sip your tea, raise an eyebrow, and carry on.

Because you’ve seen it all before.
You’ll see it all again.
And deep down, you know that calm competence beats frantic enthusiasm every single time.

After the Shipwreck: The Engineers Take the Oars

So, the ship sank. No surprise really. The champagne launch, the motivational speeches, the “game-changing” software modules—all gone, now resting comfortably on the seabed alongside Titanic’s reputation and countless other “innovations.”

But here we are, floating in our life rafts. The water has calmed, the sun is out, and—believe it or not—we’re still alive. Damp, tired, and a little sunburned, yes, but alive. And here’s the best part: we still have our paddles, our wits, and our older, sturdier systems that didn’t go down with the SS Overpromise.

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Regrouping in the Rafts

When the storm passed, something unexpected happened: silence. Gone are the shouting salespeople with their laminated buzzwords. Gone are the consultants who insisted that a “strategic synergy alignment roadmap” would keep the vessel afloat. They’ve drifted away on their branded floaties, perhaps already selling tickets for the launch of their next doomed cruise liner.

And in their absence, the people who actually know how the engine room works—us—are finally steering. It’s not glamorous. There are no drone flyovers, no ribbon-cutting ceremonies, no LinkedIn announcements about “disruption.” But we know the waters, we know what our passengers (customers) actually need, and we know how to build a boat that won’t spring a leak the minute someone leans on it.

We’ve salvaged what we can from the wreck: some planks of half-useful code, a lifebuoy of data, and a crate of “best practice” manuals that are mostly good for keeping a campfire going. The rest we leave to the fish.

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Lessons Learned in the Wreckage

The voyage wasn’t a total waste—it was expensive, chaotic, and occasionally terrifying, yes, but also educational. From the soggy wreckage, the following truths bobbed to the surface:

• Listening to the engine room matters. When the warning lights flash red, it’s not “negativity,” it’s experience. Ignoring those signals is how you end up baling water with a PowerPoint deck.

• Bigger isn’t always better. Sometimes a raft, built by steady hands, will get you further than a flashy yacht designed by a marketing department.

• Survival builds resilience. Having endured the car crash of the SS Overpromise, we now know what not to do next time. That’s valuable—even if it was the most expensive lesson in history.

• Innovation ≠ Reinvention. The wheel works. You don’t need to spend millions on a new “conceptual rolling solution” when you already have a perfectly round one.

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Building Quietly, Building Right

From here on, things will look different. We’ll stitch together the old sails with pieces of the new. We’ll take time to test our knots, to listen to the hum of the engines, to check that the hull actually holds water.

We may not be invited to black-tie award dinners for “Best Use of Blue Sky Thinking 2025.” We may not trend on tech blogs for our “visionary ecosystem.” But what we will have is working systems. Solid, practical, reliable. And our customers—who don’t care about buzzwords—will quietly thank us for it.

The truth is, glamour doesn’t keep ships afloat. Real work does. Careful planning does. Experience does.

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A Brighter Horizon

The sun is out now. We can see the horizon, and it’s ours to sail toward. Not on a gilded cruise liner designed for headlines, but on a sturdy vessel of our own making. Built by the engineers. Guided by people who know the sea.

The storm may have sunk the SS Overpromise, but it didn’t sink us. We’re still here, still rowing, and this time—we’re steering.

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Disclaimer:
This story is entirely fictional and imaginary. Any resemblance to real ships, software projects, organisations, or individuals—living or sunken—is purely coincidental.

Surviving the Sinking Ship

There are failing projects… and then there are “brace for impact, grab your life jacket, the captain thinks the iceberg is a suggestion” projects.

You know the type.
Costs spiral. Deadlines multiply like rabbits. “Must-have features” get quietly pushed into a mythical “phase two” that never arrives. And yet, from the top deck, the message is always the same:

“Everything’s fine, full steam ahead!”

Meanwhile, you’re below deck, scooping out water with a teaspoon, wondering if your LinkedIn profile needs a refresh.

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The Telltale Signs of a Doomed Project

How do you know the ship is sinking? Easy. Just look for these universal warning signs:

• PowerPoints get shinier as the project gets shakier.

• Leadership swaps out “working product” with phrases like “strategic alignment” and “future potential.”

• The project plan is now 400 slides long, and still no one knows what you’re actually building.

• Team morale is measured in how much sarcasm can be packed into the daily stand-up.

If you’ve ever thought, “Am I the only one who sees the flames pouring out of the engine room?” — congratulations, you’re on a doomed project.

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Coping Strategies for the Doomed

So what do you do when you’re strapped to the deck of a slow-motion car crash?

1. Document Everything
   Not just emails. Etch it into stone tablets if you have to. You’ll want receipts when someone inevitably asks, “Why didn’t anyone warn us?”

2. Perfect Your Poker Face
   Practice nodding sagely in meetings while internally screaming. Bonus points for jotting nonsense in your notebook — no one will question “synergy roadmap,” but it makes a great doodle.

3. Redefine Your Goals
   Forget delivering the impossible. Instead, focus on achievable wins:

   • Did you stop yourself from flipping a table? ✅

   • Did you keep the junior developer from quitting today? ✅

   • Did you find a new meme for the team chat that perfectly sums up the chaos? ✅

4. Humour = Lifeboat
   If you can’t fix it, mock it. A well-timed joke in the trenches is worth more than a motivational speech from the captain.

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The Emotional Rollercoaster

The hardest part isn’t the failure itself. It’s knowing it’s coming, waving your arms wildly, and watching the “powers that be” blissfully ignore every red flag.

It’s like being on the Hindenburg and whispering, “Is anyone else smelling smoke?”
while management beams and says, “Nonsense! This blimp is the future!”

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Final Thought: Protect Thyself

When projects implode, leadership will be “shocked,” consultants will cash their cheques, and someone will quietly bury the lessons learned. But you? You’ll still have your sanity if you protect it.

Remember:

• You didn’t steer the ship.

• You didn’t order “full speed ahead.”

• And when it does go down in flames, at least you’ll have front-row seats to one of corporate life’s greatest comedies.

Because at the end of the day… sometimes the only motivation left is knowing you weren’t the one pressing the big red button.

Switching Off for Real: My Holiday Routine (Even When I’m at Home)

When I take time off work, I take it seriously. Whether I'm heading away or having a holiday at home, I disconnect completely—and unapologetically. Working in IT, the lines between “on” and “off” can easily blur, especially when you have access to everything from your phone or laptop. But over time, I’ve learned that proper rest requires firm boundaries. So I’ve built a routine that helps me truly switch off, and here’s how I do it.

1. My Out of Office Is Clear and Firm

I don’t send vague “I’ll get back to you when I return” messages. My out-of-office email reply makes it clear:
I am out of the office and cannot be reached.

I also provide the correct route for urgent support—usually pointing people to the help desk or main IT contact number. I do this for two reasons:

• I’m not being paid to monitor or respond to work while on holiday.

• There are capable teams in place to handle things without me.

Being clear sets expectations and removes the pressure to keep one foot in work mode.

2. I Turn Off Teams Notifications on My Phone

I don’t want work chats pinging me while I’m off, especially from apps that live on my personal phone. So I switch off Teams notifications entirely. If it’s urgent, people can go through the proper channels (which, spoiler: they rarely need to).

3. I Power Down My Work Laptop—and Hide It

When my holiday starts, I shut down my work laptop completely and physically put it away. Not just out of sight—but out of reach.
This sends a signal to myself: I am not working. I am not available. I’m off.

4. I Avoid My Home Office

During workdays, my home office is where I sit and focus. But during time off, I avoid that space completely. I’ve learned that just being in that chair or at that desk can trick my brain into “work mode.” So I reclaim the boundary by physically distancing myself.

If I do need to use a computer—maybe to watch something, browse, or sort personal files—I’ll grab my MacBook and head to another room. That machine has no connection to work, and using it elsewhere helps reinforce the feeling of being off-duty.

5. I Disconnect Because It’s Healthy—And It’s My Choice

I believe it's good practice to disconnect completely. Not half-on, not checking emails in the evening, not just “keeping an eye” on things. Fully off.

Because I’m not being paid to think about work while I’m on holiday. And frankly, thinking about it doesn’t help anyone—least of all me.

Being always-available is not a badge of honour; it’s a path to burnout. Stepping away lets me return clearer, calmer, and ready to contribute again. But more than that, taking time for myself is a boundary I’ve chosen—and I stand by it.

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Final Thoughts

Whether you’re going abroad or taking a quiet break at home, you deserve time that is yours. The emails can wait. The messages can go to someone else. And the world won’t stop spinning if you don’t check in.

My routine may sound strict, but it gives me the space to recharge. And every time I stick to it, I’m reminded: rest isn’t something I need to earn—it’s something I’m entitled to.