I had been absent-mindedly fiddling with a loose thread in my pocket for while, and the inevitable had happened - the seam of my pocket had now split, and a finger sized hole was now present. Randomly scratching my leg directly through the hole (while remaining attentive to the gentleman i was listening to) there was a sudden flash of light at my shoulder. Visible only to myself, a miniature version of me dressed in a red outfit complete with pointy tail, horns and trident, leant over and began whispering commands in my ear. As usual, the traitorous shit in white with the halo on the other shoulder didn't even bother turning up. I shook my head wondering why i was even considering this, but without the inner calming guidance proceeded anyway. I doubled my efforts on the hole. In a matter of seconds, two fingers, three, four - then my whole hand had unrestricted passage through my now ruined pocket. Thoughts turned to the environment that my digits now found themselves close to. I had been walking for a while, plus last night's Jalfreizi making itself known wasn't exactly helping matters. Let's just say things weren't exactly springtime fresh down there - it was time for the theatricals. Raising my free hand, i coughed into my fist - a little one at first, then a big chesty effort that forced me to double over slightly. This was to conceal the movement of my pocket hand, which made a very brief visit to somewhere unpleasant. Standing straight again, i was aware of the uncomfortable, sticky clamminess of my index finger after its dangerous trip to the beyond. Attention was now focused on the object in front of me. I had seen it many, many times, but had never phsically been in its presence - i reached out and touched it, the physical contact making the experience more real, more memorable. Only the scarlet clad one one my shoulder noticed my index finger caressing the decorative details that little bit more, exploring, rubbing, finding as many edges as possible. After a short period, the polluted finger returned to the ruined pocket from which it came. My back was turned to the box as i continued to pay attention to the gentleman addressing the group. As I slowly walked away, I reflected on the encounter. The chance of the possible target noticing my actions were indeed only a fraction of a percent, but the mental image of him taking a sniff of the air and forming a puzzled expression is one that made it ultimately rewarding from a personal point of view. The box and its surroundings are kept immaculately clean, and the microscopic piece of clag deposited would be unnoticeable - but I felt that a personal battle had been won, and my morale was uplifted. I left the House of Commons, and took myself elsewhere after the tour. It has never been on my "things to do before you croak" list to skiff Gordon Brown's despatch box (The one in Parliament he addresses the Commons from, for the unsure), but it certainly is now - and it's already ticked. A pointless achievement maybe as he was not there personally (or I could have given him a dirty sanchez) but it's made me smile no end. Smell my cheese, Gordon - smell my fucking cheese.