The pinata was a (qualified) success. It didn't so much burst as fall off its string after a few blows, according to Mrs M (I didn't make it back from work in time to witness the assault). But there was absolutely no problem with the balloon, so thanks again to all those who offered advice, none of whom, as far as I know, was American.

Nipitinthebud - I am never without my towel. I need it to mop up after that fish went into my ear.

CaroB - You are one hoopy frood who really knows where her towel is.

If you think getting drunk feels bad, just think what it's like for the gin and tonic!

Heavens! I forgot about the poetry. My life is clearly ruined.

I hope I spelled it correctly but I don't have the books with me so can't check ... I think a Vogon is one of the very nasty aliens that demolished the earth to make way for an inter-galactic bypass. Those are the ones I meant anyway, so I hope that they won't come to punish me if I got the name wrong. Help! What if I get home to discover that my house has been destroyed by a vengeful Vogon? They're very bad-tempered and I wouldn't like to cross one, let alone two. On the other hand, the front garden does need digging over so maybe they could do that while they're there? I shall have to look up Vogon services in my Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy.

Oh, and they don't like hitch hikers either.

Vogons are renowned for their very bad poetry!

caroB, what's a Vogon? Is it a clingon vegan? Is it a clingon that won't eat alien animal products? Is it of immediate concern to me?

WELL! PSHAW! BOTHER!

I spent some time last evening constructing a witty, nay brilliant, response to Thenewbrunette, Ulrika-ka-ka, and Callum, and what happened?

Nothing.

That's right, nothing. Zilch.

Okay, not quite nothing, as I got the standard (and pretty feeble if you ask me) reply about not giving my real email address so I know I didn't hit the reset button by mistake.
But almost nothing happened and it made me late for my drive home with the Archers and I was therefore even more aggrieved than I had been about staying in the office for a bit.

So where's my message, Fencemaster? Has it been eaten by the wolfhounds of cyberspace? Will it be picked up by a roaming Klingon, or worse, a Vogon?

Or shall I be stuck here forever wittering about national service, the dove from above, and the F in Fog?