I spend most of my work day dealing with situations that are either technically or diplomatically complex, or both, and when I get home of an evening I don't have the mental energy for anything other than mindless viewing. There are a few programmes on the telly that manage to provide this without causing sufficient aggravation to make me want to kick the box, which is the main problem with soaps. I don't want angst. I don't want human relationships. I don't want anything that will make me cringe. People who are engaged in a competition that is marginally reliant on something resembling skill or ability, and which they think is the most important thing in the world despite it being completely pointless on a practical level, is about my level of braindead television. Project Runway and its UK equivalent occupy a similar niche.

Most of the time Frood goes and does something constructive while I'm in a near-catatonic state of vegetation in front of this programme, however he often comes through for the final judging in which Tyra and company critique the girls.

Frequently the contestants are told to "bring it" and it has exercised us, on a casual basis, to determine what this "it" is. We have been confused. What is "it"? From whence does "it" come? How big is "it"? What does "it" look like?

After careful perusal of advertisements and the sort of programmes that seem to be popular, we think we have determined what "it" is.

According to the Thompson's advert it can fit in a suitcase. It can't be overly heavy because the skinny girls on Top Model have to be capable of carrying it. According to a Ministry of Sound advert one is required to inflate it ("pump it"). It may or may not be blue.

We think "it" is a one-man bouncy castle. It's the only thing that meets all the requirements.

Darling.

So if you want to win a $100,000 contract with Cover Girl cosmetics, the thing to do is visit a company specialising in industrial rubber and get them to make you a bouncy castle big enough for Miss J Alexander but not so big that you can't carry it. Remember to tell everyone not to wear high heels.

Munky

Shortly after I got home Frood emailed me, subject line: "You can has claws!" I opened said email and found the following message and attachment.

"Didn't get through postal customs."

At this point I jumped to an over-excited conclusion. Because the man in the picture is wearing trousers very similar to the ones Frood had been wearing when he left for work and I'd received that mail from Munky explaining that my birthday present had been caught by customs, I figured that Munky had got these for me as a birthday present and sent them to Frood because he works in a postroom, Frood had taken delivery and this was a picture that a colleague had taken on his phone.

I was so excited. I had visions of filling a room full of cardboard boxes painted as ninjas and running around yelling "Meega nala kweesta!" and "Snickt, bub!"

I mailed Frood back immediately, peppering him with questions, no doubt sowing the seeds of confusion. His response:

"No, they are from a news story. They were seized at the international mail hub in Coventry. So you can't actually have any claws. "

Only, in my now-disappointed excitement, I failed to see the first sentence and fired back another email suggesting that perhaps all we had to do was present ID to the post office and pay the duty charges and we could get them through. Then I grabbed the phone and called Munky.

Me: Hi!
Munky: Hey you! How are you?
Me: Never mind that. What's this about claws?
Munky: What?
Me: The claws! The claws stuck in customs!
Munky: What?

And then the whole sorry story came out and finally, with Munky gasping for breath in hilarity at how I had been beaten very profoundly with the coincidence stick until I'd grasped the wrong end of it and clung on like a kitten with a catnip mouse, I realised that I could not, in fact, has claws. At all.

Bah.

And I still don't know what he's getting me for my birthday.

Heeee!

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