The microwave at work is making a hideous noise.
'It's the sound my soul makes,' said Editorial, poetically.
'No, miine is a lot shriller,' I add.
'Yeah, only children and dogs can hear it,' said Editorial, with a pained expression that might hint that she came somewhere within one of those categories - the young one, I hasten to add.
Meanwhile the microwave continues to squeal and groan, like whales in a breech birth without an epidural.
'Should I put a note on it?' asked Sales. He's standing in front of me wearing a Superman t-shirt.
'I don't know, you're the one dressed as a super hero - why don't you tell me what to do?'
'What do you mean?'
'The t-shirt!' I say, waving my finger around his torso meaningfully. 'What colour underpants are you wearing?'
He looks shocked, as only a young male colleague would when cross examined on his smalls by matronly colleague.
'Superman always wore red...' I say, by way of explanation.
'How do I know what colour Superman's pants were..?'
'He wore them on the outside of his tights,' yelled Ubereditor helpfully from inside his office (superhuman hearing - obviously we have more than one employee with special powers.)
'But what does that have to do with the Microwave?' (Which is still bellowing and wailing eerily with the odd Baskerville howl. God I know how it feels.) 'What if it explodes all over someone?'
'Okay so put a note on it...'
Just another day in the life of a busy publishing executive...
