Duncan Bannatyne is my bitch.

Today, while I wondered around at work thinking about what I could write, I had visions of an account that chronicled the working mans grind. The long hours, the callous work hardened hands and the stresses of a real days labour.

Then I realised I fold clothes for a living.

Then I realised that that’s not really the point.

OK, so sometimes my brain hurts from the mundane shop chat that I’m subjected to 50% of the time. The occasional walking OK magazine that sees fit to issue Cheryl Cole’s tweet updates as and when the make the arduous journey from her brain to her Twitter account. But then I remembered that the other 50% of the time, I’m pretty lucky. I get to work with a lot of very funny people.

Yesterday someone got their head stuck in a door (Will Denton if you’re wondering). They’d invented a game during their lunch. One person stands heels to the wall and primed, the other (The technical term for this person is ‘the setter’) holds the door open until the ‘runner’ is ready.

Then it happens.

The door is released, and the runner waits, and waits and waits. The more confident runners may even turn around or close their eyes.

AND THEN BAM. It happens fast- in a frenzied collection of movements the runner throws themselves forward in a moment of daring. The heavy fire door only a foot or so from closing as they slide through the vanishing gap, like flat Stanley on crack.

The record line is then recorded on the floor in shoe streaks of rubber, the place where the door was when the last most daring left their heel poised post.

So yeah, I thought I was going to try and reach out. Say something to the disillusioned slaves of the economy, become a figure head, lead a revolution, make Duncan Bannatyne my bitch. But the more I thought about it, It’s the little things, the stupid games and Karan’s ‘ethnic banter’ that make it liveable.

What I’m trying to say is that we could be doing anything really. Selling clothes, shares, stolen goods, used underwear (we’re not, they have sanitary stickers to defend against this) but as long as you’re still able to fuck about a little bit, it’s OK. In fact, it’s more than OK. It’s hilarious.