I'm British and charming, and she's got... angles... that work for her

I have a regular conference call that involves primarily a team in London, and every time I am on it, I picture them wanting to shoot themselves directly in the face with fucking bazookas. They’re so polite, and they do such good work, but OMG, our stateside team is A) aggressively, unstoppably biz-speaky [that's kind of just how my profession rolls] and B) prone to chasing down shiny things like a toddler on a goddamn 40-easter-basket sugar high -- I can actually feel the transatlantic frustration and annoyance beaming from the satellite into my ears. This one guy, in particular, always sounds like he might start weeping from the despair of it – I mean, he’s there, in his office, at 9:30 at night, wading through the recursive and elliptical fragments of our end of these eternal discussions of what I’m sure he could reasonably expect would be fairly direct matters (“in terms of … from a ____ perspective … have a conversation around that … as we put together that piece of it … share knowledge on that … and then maybe when we figure out what that looks like … if we could talk about next steps … as we think about where we are in the project …”). I get the feeling he’s going to sign off in his gentle British way at the end of the call and then set the fucking hallway carpet on fire.

Or maybe I’m projecting.