Frustration seared through me as I took a pot shot at the bin, aiming my latest effort at advertising into its depths. My acute lack of marketing skills was starting to make itself felt, as was the absence of any obvious creative talent. I gazed around the office seeking inspiration for the flyers that I was supposed to be creating for the sale of our apples, and finding none I turned my attention back to the screen.

Keep it simple, I thought as I clicked and dragged a disembodied Golden Delicious into the top right hand corner. The ideas for our leaflets advertising boxes of lamb had come quickly; they had been uncomplicated and successful, just as the sales had turned out to be. But at present, nothing about the apples seemed to indicate that they were going to have the same good fortune.

I clicked open a text box, keeping my attention on the task at hand with difficulty. I needed something catchy; just four or five words that would give the idea that apples didn’t get much better than the ones from our farm. That nowhere on earth would they be tastier, juicier, as succulent, sun kissed and golden, grown and picked by a more loving hand…(or something along those lines).

Writing copy in French though was proving somewhat of a challenge. My French wasn’t bad, but twisting and turning the words in a language that wasn’t my own, was like trying to model hardened plasticine. It never quite took the form I wanted. All the slogans that sprang to mind in English just seemed to die in the translation. What I needed was a good spot of lateral thinking. I needed to think outside the box. In French.

I looked at the screen in resignation, not needing a print-out to tell me that it lacked sparkle. I could hear the kids shouting outside and my eyes drifted to the window. I remembered that inspiration would often strike when you were least expecting it, usually in the middle of a completely different activity. Maybe my imagination would be stimulated by a bout in the garden. I quickly saved my half-finished attempts and ignoring the little voice in my mind that whispered “procrastination”, I ran out to play football.