WARNING: May contain traces of fiction"Right, you terrible gits," I say of my shamefaced colleagues, "Which one of you took my last packet of Pickled Onion Monster Munch?"
I look up and down the line of desks, each face a picture of guilt, but there is no trace of my pickled onion flavour corn-based snack featuring tasty, tasty disodium 5 ribonucleotide.
Remembering Conan Doyle's classic work Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Corn-Laden Turd, in which the master of deduction solves the most vexing of mysteries by examining the stool samples of a cross-section of London society, I resolve to sort this out by using a similar tactic.
Under threat of death, each is forced to stand and allow their benevolent boss to smell their breath. Any trace of picked onion and tasty, tasty disodium 5 ribonucleotide resulting in instant transfer to our office in the back room of a butcher shop in Smolensk, via the matter transporter which we haven't quite got working properly.
"So. Frank. Your breath smells of anchovies. Again. How many times have I warned you about eating seafood in the office."
"And Brenda. Wipe that smile from your face. Along with that dried yoghurt. The loss of my pickled onion flavour corn-based snack featuring tasty, tasty disodium 5 ribonucleotide is no laughing matter."
Having failed to nail the culprit, I resort to plan B: the Jeremy Kyle-bran DNA Testing Kit and the big net in the sewage outflow pipe.
That - my friends - is what temporary staff is for.
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