Its a brave new world, now we Brits have people without Irish accents trying to blow us up. Where we would normally shrug off the latest atrocity by a minority of disturbed Irish individuals, an atrocity by a minority of disturbed Muslims appears to have induced a state of national paranoia.
Its felt even at the workplace of the Newly Single, where the only hazard to daily life is an occasional animal rights protestor who is too stupid to read our corporate literature. Unless they're protesting about the bunnies I've squished under my car over the years.
Yes, paranoia is rife. So much so that when a badly wrapped parcel arrived addressed for our Big Boss, HR got worried. The address was written in a scrawled hand and the brown paper had what looked like wires poking out.
Naturally, the Bomb Squad was called in.
The Bomb Squad peered at the lunchbox sized package that was now squatting on the HR Director's desk.
The Bomb Squad called for an x-ray machine.
An x-ray machine was brought from Gatwick Airport and installed.
Gingerly, the package was sent through the machine. Inside could be seen a block of something gelatinous, something that appeared to be machinery - maybe cogs - and wires.
(the whole building had been evacuated by this stage)
The Bomb Squad agonised over a controlled explosion, or opening the parcel. The latter option was selected.
And inside...
...inside...
...was a piece of wedding cake, some ornaments from the cake (the cogs) and cake decoration (the wire.)
Sadly I have no formal record of what the Big Boss said, but I gather it involved naughty words. We enjoyed our half day though. Most of us elected to head for the pub. Freedom 1, Stuff Of Nightmares 0.
