I reckon I would have made a good hostage negotiator.

Earlier today I was watching one of the engineers wrestle with a device at work and he was getting pretty pissed off and practically ready to throw it through the wall.

So I stepped in and defused the situation the way only the D-Man can.

I gave him The Fingers.

And he totally forgot about beating up an inanimate object and got pissed off at me instead.

Nowwwwww I remember.
I actually make a crap hostage negotiator.

It's hostage-taking that I'm good at.

My bad.

Stress levels among some of my colleagues have been elevated lately.

I think it has something to do with the fact that one of our key products has been blowing up and killing people.

And, sure, you might say, well, isn’t that exactly what products from a mass destruction weapons company are meant to do?

Yes.
But not while the people who purchased them are transporting them to their secret mountain lairs.

Apparently we are not flavour of the week with Al Qaeda and some dude known as Kim Jong II.

(It’s the hair that makes him crazy.)

I sent an email to the lady in charge of stationary, asking her to order some scalpel blades for me. Then I walked over to her desk on the other side of the office to return the office supplies product catalogue.

My email turned up while I was there.

That means … I am quicker that the internet!

Faster than a speeding email!

(But not in bed. That’s just some scurrilous rumour spread by some disgruntled hookers.)

Long story.

At lunchtime I rescued a drowning baby bumble bee.

I sat it down on my discarded paper sandwich bag, so it could dry its wings.

Then the wind picked up it and the bag and put it back in the water.

The last I saw, that little bumble was sailing out to sea.

Maybe it was just meant to bee.

My eldest has worked out how to open her bedroom door and let herself out in the morning.

I don’t know what’s worse: Being rudely woken by her banging repeatedly on her door until someone gets up and lets her out, or waking up to discover her standing over me, breathing three-year-old’s germs into my face as she impatiently waits for me to get up and make her some breakfast.

And the littlest one has just started crawling.

No good can come of this.