My new choice for the best biscuit in the entire world, narrowly beating the elegant deliciousness of the McVitie's Hobnob, is the sumptuously scrumptious Belgian caramelised biscuit known as the speculoos de Bruge (also called a speculaas, if you're Dutch). You'll be familiar with if you've spent any time in northern France, as they serve them with every single cup of coffee sold in any restaurant or bar north of Limoges (they're actually compulsory by law). I've just received a couple of packets of them from a friend who returned from Rouen last weekend, and have spent a goodly portion of this morning sampling them slowly and with an expression of near-orgasmic rapture on my face, which is causing a certain degree of alarm in my colleagues. I'd forgotten just how damn gorgeous they are.

The only problem seems to be that I can't find a UK supplier for the little buggers for love, money or bent pins. This is a disaster.

Can anyone tell me if they know of a supermarket, deli, or other establishment in England which sells speculoos biscuits? Or, failing that, a website from which I can order them? I need them, NEED THEM I TELL YOU. Sssssss. My precious.

Amphibious cars? Why yes, 007! We have just the thing!

The very epitome of cool. There is one parked in the customer car park right this minute, and it's just about the coolest gadget I've seen all month. And believe me, I've seen some pretty funky gear. Not quite sure what one is doing around here, though, since the Midlands is, well, in the middle of a lot of land, appropriately enough. The only largish body of water hereabouts is the canal, and frankly I would advise one not to drive any remotely expensive vehicle down that, unless one doesn't mind getting covered in a fine spray of oil and having one's prop shaft lovingly embraced by affection-starved filaments of duckweed.

Here's a collection of very childish emails which I've been exchanging with a colleague this morning. If you've eaten recently it's probably better not to read on.

Email 1 (from colleague)

Have you noticed how bad Leon smells this morning... wow.

Email 2 (from me)

Leon does smell very bad today, and I think it is because he has recently taken to dunking himself head-first into a vat of raw sewage. I have tried to tell him that this is bad for his health, but he is oblivious.

I suggest that we all take every available opportunity to walk past him holding our noses, saying, "Leon, you smell of poo."

Email 3 (from colleague)

I am going to tell Leon on you if you do not buy me... mmmmmmm... a chocolate bar!!!

Email 4 (from me)

Well, you started it, poo head.

Email 5 (from colleague)

OK OK I can do better than that... I will tell everyone that you dip your head in your own poo so that when you walk around fleas attach themselves to you as you have a fetish for poo and fleas

Email 6 (from me)

You're only saying that because you own the largest flea farm in England and you're looking for customers, I think it's just wishful thinking on your part, you malodorous flea saleswoman.

Email 7 (from colleague)

I do not like you no more as you are very nasty to me. I am going to tell the Boss on you so you can be spanked on the bottom very hard with the new mail server in the machine room. ha ha, see if that hurts. YOU SMELLY TROUT

Email 8 (from me)

I have several points to make:

1. You resemble a poo
2. You smell of poo
3. Your work area is covered in poo
4. All your colleagues have to wear poo-resistant clothing
5. Your salary is paid in poo

My conclusion is that you are addicted to poo. If you would like some extra poo shipped to your home address, I have a bulk supplier standing by who has been notified of your unusual need for poo and would be delighted to help.

I haven't had a reply back from that last one. I think I might have made her cry.

I really, really need to get out more.

I seem to have a bit of spare time on my hands at the moment; not much, but just enough so that my mind inevitably wanders to the hundreds of tiny little projects which I always have on my to-do list - sort out the mail, tidy my cupboards, clear up assorted vexing bits of paperwork, plot my evil one-man blitzkrieg invasion of France, that sort of thing - but which I never actually get around to doing because something bigger invariably crops up. Every bloody time, without exception. Usually, it's The Missus demanding my attention to help sort out some perennially-fucked bit of software which she's foolishly imported from her workplace; either that, or there are several billion pounds' worth of cheques which need writing, which as you can doubtless imagine improves my mood no end. By the time aforesaid software has been unfucked and monies dispatched, I have no spare minutes left, and fall exhausted into the lumpy upstairs contrivance which laughingly calls itself a bed.

I've come to the conclusion that I need some sort of time-expanding machine. Any temporal scientists who happen to be reading this are requesting to contact me at the earliest opportunity. Please.

A colleague has pitched up in the office today with a drastic new haircut, and I do mean drastic; she's gone from a darkish brown, shoulder-length bob with sort of feathery bits at the front (my apologies on the lack of hairdressing jargon, but I'm running a restaurant here, not a salon) to a short, blonde-dyed spikefest. It's quite a startling transformation. It's really odd how a change in someone's appearance makes you react to them slightly differently - I wonder, if I didn't know her quite well already, whether I'd form a different first impression of her than I did in reality.

Actually, I've just realised what it reminds me of; she now looks almost exactly like Switch from The Matrix. Cool.

Some helpdesk chap brings the usual birthday junk food offering into the office today - you know, the good old "stuff your colleagues full of sugary crap" birthday tradition - and lo and behold, wonder of wonders, there amongst the same old greasy doughnuts, rock-hard flapjacks and giant American cookies the size of a small pizza, lurks a large bar of Kendal Mint Cake, that staple delight of polar explorers, mountaineers and Lake-District-lovers everywhere. For the uninitiated, Kendal Mint Cake is a hard, slightly crumbly, white (or sometimes brown) block of sugary substance with mint oil in it, and it is verily delicious. Personally I love the stuff, so naturally I pocket a massive chunk; this gets spotted by my chums in the server room, who of course demand a percentage of the proceeds, which I reluctantly distribute.

One particular rotund, goateed, Daniel-Bedingfield-looking chap pipes up, his eyes glazing over in bliss as he crunches this marvel of the confectioner's art, "You know they mine this stuff somewhere up North."

A stunned silence falls upon the server room.

"Er... you what?" says my mate Sparky. *

"Yeah, there's an actual place called Kendal..."

"Yeeeeees," I drawl, for I have been there, "and...?"

"...and they mine this cake. From the ground. Fantastic, innit?"

Sparky and I exchange glances of disbelief. Our jaws slacken perceptibly. Undeterred, Dozy Boy continues.

"Yeah. Apparently, though, they're being told to stop mining it now, 'cos it's causing subsidence in all the houses and landscape and stuff. No, seriously, guys, this is totally true. It's ruining the Lake District, all this cake mining."

More silence of the stunned nature. Several pins drop off a desk, and cause inner ear trauma. Nearby mice remark upon how quiet it is.

"So who told you this?" I eventually squeeze out past my astonished tonsils.

"Oh, that was my girlfriend, she saw it on the news. Yeah, it's really serious, people have been hurt and everything, their houses were falling into the abandoned cake mines."

Sparky and I, by this point, are starting to crack up. We are having difficulty in avoiding hysterical laughter. Snorting is happening.

"No, no, mate, she's having you on."

"She wouldn't make something like that up, she's not clever enough."

Oh dear.

Out comes the mobile, as he confronts the girlfriend telephonically. Unsurprisingly (to everyone except Dozy Boy) she confesses that it was a wind-up. Dozy Boy's gullibility in the face of such a bold and imaginative falsehood, and indeed the persistent look of hurt bewilderment on his face as she's coming clean, make it evident that she is most certainly clever enough, and probably quite a bit cleverer than he is.

Sparky and I are now semi-epileptic on the floor, holding our aching sides and cackling like hyaenas at Happy Hour. Dozy Boy slinks off, shamefaced, and hides under his desk for half an hour until he can go home.

I don't think he will be living this one down for a while.

* Yes, that really is his nickname, and no, he doesn't have metal testicles. At least as far as I know.

Well, the trauma in Southampton seems to have abated a little; the lady in question is apparently sprightly and full of beans again, now that she's getting the immediate medical attention she needed. They've done a CAT scan and we're waiting for the results, but in the meantime, she's been able to eat almost normally again, which can only be a good sign...

The last few days have been a bit hellish, unfortunately, hence the lack of postage. We were all visiting The Missus' parents this weekend, and her great-aunt was doing the same, so we're having a lovely family get-together... until the great-aunt has a mini-stroke (I think the correct term is "transient ischemic attack") on Friday evening. She's admitted to the local hospital, who run the bare minimum number of spot-checks, keep her in for a few hours for observation, and then promptly discharge her saying that she looks "perfectly alright" to them. No CT scan, no blood tests, nothing.

Bear in mind at this point that the lady is 87, and is normally healthy, active, walks unaided and cracks naughty jokes; on Saturday morning she can hardly focus on anything, needs help walking ten steps, has a severe and persistent headache, is throwing up practically anything she eats or drinks, is confused about where she is, can't speak clearly, and is having breathing difficulties. Yeah, of course she's perfectly alright.

So anyway, back we go to my mum-in-law's house, and spend the rest of the weekend looking after the poor old girl, who keeps waking up at ungodly hours and trying to go (i.e. fall) downstairs for a drink, and similar escapades. We have to call an ambulance at 4am on Sunday morning because she can't remember how many paracetamol she's taken and we suspect an overdose; the crew turn up at 6, look her over and decide she's fine, and leave. Wonderful.

Quick reminder - we've all had about 4 hours' sleep in the last 48 hours at this point, what with Sarah teething and all on top of the above excitement.

So. Later on Sunday morning my mum-in-law decides it's time to try and get her home, which is 300 miles away in Southampton, so they set off in an old, cranky van down the motorway at about 3 miles per hour. The Missus and I set off at about lunchtime, getting back to our house at 5pm to find both mother-in-law and great-aunt in our lounge, having a cup of tea; they'd decided (sensibly) that they were far too tired to make it all the way to Southampton in one day, so they were taking up our offer to crash at our place for the night. Fine. No problem. Sarah moves to the travel cot in our bedroom, and great-aunt gets the spare bed in the nursery. Sorted.

Fat bloody chance; at 4:15 am on Monday morning, great-aunt can't breathe properly, so we call another ambulance and she's admitted to our local hospital, with Missus and mum-in-law in tow, leaving me with irate toddler and no milk left in the fridge. Great-aunt is given oxygen and discharged at 10am (yes, really. The NHS is genuinely this shite). At this point, great-aunt's daughter calls up, three days after she's heard that her mum has had a stroke, and wants to know when her mum is coming home. Pastamasta has very, very calm discussion with daughter about filial responsibilities, and suggests that daughter comes and picks her mum up, as none of us are currently able to do more than stagger about going "aargh" due to lack of sleep. Daughter agrees to pitch up Tuesday morning.

Monday night is full of the usual excitement, with assorted helpings of vomiting great-aunt, screaming Sarah, breathless great-aunt, thirsty Sarah, great-aunt trying to launch herself downstairs again, and petulant Sarah demanding to be taken to school (at 6am).

On Tuesday morning we get a call from great-aunt's daughter, saying she can't come and pick her mum up, because [insert ludicrous and transparently false excuse here, I really can't remember because I was semi-comatose at the time]. We all decide the the best course of action is to arrange for a private ambulance to take great-aunt down to Southampton Hospital, because she needs 24-hour care which (a) we're all now far too knackered to continue giving her, and (b) her daughter is clearly unwilling to provide. After ringing around several thousand organisations, we finally get hold of a bunch of chaps in Coventry who have a private ambulance and are available and willing to help (and are frankly the first helpful people we've spoken to all week). By 3pm she's in the ambulance and getting comfy, and off they go.

We received an update from her daughter (who decides to pitch up at last, once her mother is in the same city) that evening, to say that great-aunt is in Southampton Hospital, with an oxygen tank and a drip in place, and is apparently feeling much better for it.

I've just had 10 hours' sleep, and it feels wonderful. I'm still flabbergasted, however, by the levels of blatant indifference, and occasionally downright neglect, that we encountered in the National Health Service. I bet you a gazillion quid that if she'd been an 8-year-old child, they'd have leapt all over themselves to help; apparently, caring for the elderly would be a profitless waste of resources. They might as well have shoved her in a bed with a sign on it saying "Hurry up and die".

Ooh, I'm angry.

The chap who sits next to me at work is due to become a father in December, and has apparently just received an email from an inquisitive friend asking whether he's decided on a name for the baby yet. Said chap has been polling the office, asking for suggestions. Since the baby is a boy (they've had a scan and allegedly "it's enormous", which is too much detail for me, frankly) we've been trying to come up with suitable male monikers for the wee nipper. So far, the best have been:

• Tarquin
• Oberon
• Humphrey
• Voldemort
• Egad
• Ratty
• Whist
• Zebulun
• Limpet
• Darius
• Caligula
• Mycroft
• Narcissus
• Fry
• Molar
• Nebuchadnezzar
• Snackbasket
• Chunk
• Squinty
• Jehoshaphat

As I'm sure you can see, we've been taking this exercise quite seriously.

Whee! I have new toys! I have a spanky new DVD player, which plays (according to the label) "DVD+/-R, DVD+/-RW, DVD-ROM, DVD-Video, VCD, SVCD, CD-R, CD-RW, CD-Audio, MP3, WMA and PhotoCD". Allegedly this means something. All I know is that it's silver and sleek and looks slightly predatory, as if it could bring down a herd of Thompson's gazelles while breaking the land speed record.

As a companion item for this paragon of shininess I've also bought, at something of a bargain, a DVD re-writer drive for my PC, so that I can create my own DVDs. This boyo reads and writes a similarly long and bewildering list of formats. Obviously not in any way to BREACH COPYRIGHT REGULATIONS, or anything so very, very evil and also naughty. Just to make wee home videos and things.

Muahahahaha.

Yet another example of manly cleanliness is currently on display in our corporate latrines; some scummy degenerate has obviously felt the need, in the last few hours, to clear his nostrils of the sticky, luminous green detritus within, and has helpfully smeared it onto the wall above the urinals for the rest of us to peruse at our leisure. I suppose we could charitably guess that it's a ground-breaking new art form, or perhaps a communication medium for Slug-People from the planet Shshlurp (after all, we pride ourselves as a company on our ethnic diversity), but sadly I doubt it, unless said Shshlurpians are into really dirty literature.

There's something fundamentally wrong about early autumn, as I'm sure I've said before. It's a seasonal non-entity, by which I mean that it's too cold to sunbathe and too warm to wrap up and slide down a hillful of snow on a tea-tray. It puts me in a funny mood, which I find myself forced to combat - or possibly exacerbate - by eating chocolate-chip cookies and drinking twenty gallons of the canteen's hyper-espresso every day. Obviously, I'm now totally and permanently wired from the combination of excess sugar and caffeine, so my colleagues have taken to avoiding standing too close to me, and hiding any sharp objects. My temples are throbbing interestingly as I sit and twitch at my laptop, and watch the fluorescent lights on the ceiling expanding and contracting rhythmically. Right now (aside from typing this) I'm amusing myself by staring fixedly at the timid new project manager four desks away, and grinning toothily and waving every time he looks up. He's already twitching slightly himself, and with any luck should be about ready to bolt for the safety of the gents' toilets in the next ten minutes.

Friday afternoons can be such fun when you give in to the nefarious urgings of the Mischief Gnome. Go on, you know you want to.