'My mouse is constipated,' said Mr T as he strode out of his office, all long-legged and purposefully, like John Cleese playing it straight.
Our latest intern Rachael looked alarmed, as well she might, as he seemed to be suggesting that she do something about it. There's a Royal Society for the Prevention of at least two of the things that were running though my mind as he spoke.
'It's all bunged up and stuck, so I need a new one,' he announced.
Rachael shrank back in her chair, as did I. Well to be honest, I was actually under the chair by this point. Hey - that's why we have an intern. She was about to be deputised as next-in-line for a task that I wasn't keen on.
'Can you go to Tottenham Court Road and get me a new one?' he asked. I was now under the desk, taking absolutely no chances, but feeling a degree of relief that it was indeed a computer accessory he was talking about and not a small rodent that he had been keeping in his office.
Frankly, nothing would surprise me. We do tend to hoard odd things. Ilona has the world's largest ball of twine which had we been in Missouri would have its own scenic viewpoint and accompanying gift shop while I have a bale of bubble wrap stuffed under reception that is big enough to pad out the entire office. It is only of tiny significance that I have ordered both these items from an on-line catalogue where I had a little trouble with the scale of the photographs. As I may have mentioned - I do have a small spacial awareness problem. It's the same one that men on internet dating sights suffer from when they tell you they are of 'average build' and turn up looking like Demis Roussos but with an Izod shirt instead of a caftan.
A kleptomaniac mouse with pica is surely the only thing that would account for the surprising things that have been disappearing from the kitchen. Bunmi's croissante the other morning, two dozen mysteriously vanishing teaspoons, a box of light bulbs, several water glasses and my pungent box of Tesco's Thai sip-a-soup that I suspect have been thrown out as a precautionary measure because everyone complains when I eat it.
'It's like living in a student house,' bemoaned Jo, as Lyns walked into the middle of the room and wailed that someone had eaten her pear.
A loud sigh of disapproval went round the office. Nine women who've had their food tampered with are not to be messed with. Whatever next if you can't leave your own fruit to rot in the bowl without it being eaten?
And then a small voice whispered from behind a partition. 'It was me,' confessed Ilona. 'I was hungry,' she almost wept, putting a winsome Oliver twist on to it, 'and it had been there for a very long time. It was very soft.'
Her husband later told her she was mad to have 'fessed up. I agree. I didn't tell anyone that I had the last of the milk this morning.
'Now I'm going to get blamed for everything that goes missing,' she said.
It's true. And oh I do like a scapegoat.
I also like an intern who pays attention, listens, does all the rubbish jobs, laughs at my blog, and brings chocolates on her last day. Lindt too, none of your rubbish.
Farewell Rachael - you will be missed. And in the meantime, I will be under my desk in case the mouse's bowels seize up once again.
