ust the two notes he’d started with.

With subtle variations, the busker created an almost tribal rhythm which resounded around the plaza. Within minutes, a crowd had gathered, bigger than the crowd of a few minutes earlier. Rather than standing in awe, this crowd couldn’t help but move. They tapped their feet and rocked their bodies. Some started dancing.

The music continued for a few minutes and concluded with rapturous applause, shouts for more and the rattle of more change into the hat on the ground.

Simon watched all this in wonder, bu

Simon sauntered. It was rare that he had the chance to take a lunchtime walk beside the city’s river. He wasn’t going to waste this one. And in any case, he desperately needed some space. Oblivious of the grey skies, the grey path and the rush of other grey suits weaving their way around him, he wrapped himself in his thoughts.

It was the music which caused Simon to stop. A busker was playing his harmonica with an energy that even the most distracted mind couldn’t avoid.

The musician was playing fast and loud, notes spilling from his instrument with the enthusiasm of a happy child. Combining complex riffs into a frenzied melody, his sound was a splash of colour on the dull canvas of the day.

His small audience – those who weren’t rushing to their next meeting – stood dumbstruck in wonder. They clapped as he finished and, as he stepped back for a break, the generous chatter of change into his hat reinforced their appreciation.

As he sat down, the harmonica player looked up and noticed Simon standing, motionless, staring through him to the river behind.

“I’ll be starting again in a min…” he said before interrupting himself. “Man, you look terrible. Who stole your happy pills?”

Simon refocused on the busker. “Tough day,” he said with a sigh and just the hint of a resigned smile. “Tough year, in fact.”

Simon wandered over towards the musician and, without being prompted, he continued. “I’ve got 250 emails in my inbox and I can’t clear them out because they keep coming as quickly as I read them. I can’t even get a break by leaving the office because my BlackBerry means that anyone can get hold of me at any time, by phone or email or text message. There’s no escape. No one ever told me that being a manager would mean working 24/7.”

The harmonica player thought about Simon’s predicament for a moment. “I can’t tell you much about management,” he said, “but I reckon I can teach you one thing. Watch this.”

With that, the harmonica player stood up at his microphone again. He put his instrument to his mouth and started playing a simple train-like rhythm with just two notes. Doo Doo Dah Dah. Doo Doo Dah Dah… Slowly he built the speed of the rhythm while continuing to use just the two notes he’d started with.

With subtle variations, the busker created an almost tribal rhythm which resounded around the plaza. Within minutes, a crowd had gathered, bigger than the crowd of a few minutes earlier. Rather than standing in awe, this crowd couldn’t help but move. They tapped their feet and rocked their bodies. Some started dancing.

The music continued for a few minutes and concluded with rapturous applause, shouts for more and the rattle of more change into the hat on the ground.

Simon watched all this in wonder, bu

with the enthusiasm of a happy child. Combining complex riffs into a frenzied melody, his sound was a splash of colour on the dull canvas of the day.

His small audience – those who weren’t rushing to their next meeting – stood dumbstruck in wonder. They clapped as he finished and, as he stepped back for a break, the generous chatter of change into his hat reinforced their appreciation.

As he sat down, the harmonica player looked up and noticed Simon standing, motionless, staring through him to the river behind.

“I’ll be starting again in a min…” he said before interrupting himself. “Man, you look terrible. Who stole your happy pills?”

Simon refocused on the busker. “Tough day,” he said with a sigh and just the hint of a resigned smile. “Tough year, in fact.”

Simon wandered over towards the musician and, without being prompted, he continued. “I’ve got 250 emails in my inbox and I can’t clear them out because they keep coming as quickly as I read them. I can’t even get a break by leaving the office because my BlackBerry means that anyone can get hold of me at any time, by phone or email or text message. There’s no escape. No one ever told me that being a manager would mean working 24/7.”

The harmonica player thought about Simon’s predicament for a moment. “I can’t tell you much about management,” he said, “but I reckon I can teach you one thing. Watch this.”

With that, the harmonica player stood up at his microphone again. He put his instrument to his mouth and started playing a simple train-like rhythm with just two notes. Doo Doo Dah Dah. Doo Doo Dah Dah… Slowly he built the speed of the rhythm while continuing to use just the two notes he’d started with.

With subtle variations, the busker created an almost tribal rhythm which resounded around the plaza. Within minutes, a crowd had gathered, bigger than the crowd of a few minutes earlier. Rather than standing in awe, this crowd couldn’t help but move. They tapped their feet and rocked their bodies. Some started dancing.

The music continued for a few minutes and concluded with rapturous applause, shouts for more and the rattle of more change into the hat on the ground.

Simon watched all this in wonder, bu

min…” he said before interrupting himself. “Man, you look terrible. Who stole your happy pills?”

Simon refocused on the busker. “Tough day,” he said with a sigh and just the hint of a resigned smile. “Tough year, in fact.”

Simon wandered over towards the musician and, without being prompted, he continued. “I’ve got 250 emails in my inbox and I can’t clear them out because they keep coming as quickly as I read them. I can’t even get a break by leaving the office because my BlackBerry means that anyone can get hold of me at any time, by phone or email or text message. There’s no escape. No one ever told me that being a manager would mean working 24/7.”

The harmonica player thought about Simon’s predicament for a moment. “I can’t tell you much about management,” he said, “but I reckon I can teach you one thing. Watch this.”

With that, the harmonica player stood up at his microphone again. He put his instrument to his mouth and started playing a simple train-like rhythm with just two notes. Doo Doo Dah Dah. Doo Doo Dah Dah… Slowly he built the speed of the rhythm while continuing to use just the two notes he’d started with.

With subtle variations, the busker created an almost tribal rhythm which resounded around the plaza. Within minutes, a crowd had gathered, bigger than the crowd of a few minutes earlier. Rather than standing in awe, this crowd couldn’t help but move. They tapped their feet and rocked their bodies. Some started dancing.

The music continued for a few minutes and concluded with rapturous applause, shouts for more and the rattle of more change into the hat on the ground.

Simon watched all this in wonder, bu

email or text message. There’s no escape. No one ever told me that being a manager would mean working 24/7.”

The harmonica player thought about Simon’s predicament for a moment. “I can’t tell you much about management,” he said, “but I reckon I can teach you one thing. Watch this.”

With that, the harmonica player stood up at his microphone again. He put his instrument to his mouth and started playing a simple train-like rhythm with just two notes. Doo Doo Dah Dah. Doo Doo Dah Dah… Slowly he built the speed of the rhythm while continuing to use just the two notes he’d started with.

With subtle variations, the busker created an almost tribal rhythm which resounded around the plaza. Within minutes, a crowd had gathered, bigger than the crowd of a few minutes earlier. Rather than standing in awe, this crowd couldn’t help but move. They tapped their feet and rocked their bodies. Some started dancing.

The music continued for a few minutes and concluded with rapturous applause, shouts for more and the rattle of more change into the hat on the ground.

Simon watched all this in wonder, bu

ust the two notes he’d started with.

With subtle variations, the busker created an almost tribal rhythm which resounded around the plaza. Within minutes, a crowd had gathered, bigger than the crowd of a few minutes earlier. Rather than standing in awe, this crowd couldn’t help but move. They tapped their feet and rocked their bodies. Some started dancing.

The music continued for a few minutes and concluded with rapturous applause, shouts for more and the rattle of more change into the hat on the ground.

Simon watched all this in wonder, but he wasn’t sure he understood what the musician was trying to tell him.

The harmonica player smiled. “What I just played can be played by any first year harmonica player. Yet the crowd were moved by it more than all the fancy stuff I was doing earlier. Sometimes I need to remember a lesson I was taught early on in my music career:

Just because you can doesn’t mean you must.

He paused to let Simon absorb his words, then went on. “Don’t you think that same lesson might apply to you? You’ve got all this fancy techno stuff which allows you to be on the job around-the-clock. So you’re letting it keep you on the job around-the-clock.”

Simon stared out at the river in thought for some time. “Just because I can doesn’t mean I must,” he said, half to himself. He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and pointed to the off button. With a knowing grin, he said, “So perhaps I need to use this more often?”

The harmonica player nodded.

A resolved look crossed Simon’s face. “Thanks,” he said, and, looking up at the brightening sky, he started back toward the office.