There are professions that make you think: surely that cannot actually exist.

Mountain-goat psychologist.
Professional queue tester.
Lego instruction-book maker.

And yet that last one, especially, really does exist.

I imagine them as a calm man. Or woman. It does not really matter. Someone who spends the entire day thinking about questions the rest of the world never considers.

“Can this red brick go on page 14 already, or is humanity not ready for it yet?”

They are not a builder. They are a guide.

They decide that you first click three black bricks into place, then a grey pin and only after that the one yellow plate. Not because it cannot be done differently, but because otherwise it is not right.

Their greatest fear?

A missing page.

Just imagine.

You are making excellent progress. Bag 3. Everything is running smoothly. The children still believe in you. Your partner even says: “You’re really good at this.”

And then…

The booklet suddenly jumps from page 42 to page 45.

Pages 43 and 44 have disappeared.

You look again.

You leaf back.

You shake the booklet.

You suspect the dog.

You count the pages.

You suspect LEGO.

You suspect yourself.

And suddenly there is a small red brick on the table that nobody knows what to do with.

From that moment on, the living room becomes a forensic investigation.

“Have we used this piece already?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then why is it here?”

“Perhaps it belonged on the missing page.”

Nobody knows.

By now, the children have gone outside to play.

Your partner has gone for coffee.

And you are sitting there with half a spaceship, one red brick and an existential crisis.

Somewhere, deep in Denmark, a Lego instruction-book maker suddenly feels a slight shiver.

They look up from the screen.

“There is a page missing somewhere.”

Their colleagues laugh.

“How do you know?”

They shrug.

“A feeling.”

Ever since, they check every instruction booklet one extra time.

Not because people are not allowed to make mistakes.

But because they know that one missing page is enough to derail an entire Saturday afternoon.

And somehow, I think that is a wonderful profession.

Not because you make LEGO.

But because you prevent someone from being left with one red brick whose reason for existing nobody can explain.