A new bloke has started in the office today. Seems nice enough. Our Pointy-Haired Boss has sat him down next to me, which is reasonable given that he's joining my team, and in the course of conversation I casually mentioned to him that our particular project has a habit of keeping its staff on for longer periods of time than is usual within the company at large; for example, I myself have been on the project for seven years.

Seven years. To the day, as it happens.

Holy shit.

That's a long bloody time to work in one place.

Here are some of the things I have done in the last seven years (not necessarily in chronological order):

• got married
  
• had two sproglets
  
• developed a thorough dislike of aubergines
  
• obtained a wallet-buggeringly large mortgage
  
• learned how not to fall off a snowboard
  
• started a blog (where??)
  
• become allergic to avocado
  
• lost some hair
  
• gained some weight
  
• lost some weight again
  
• run over several pheasants
  
• developed several pleasurably annoying habits
  
• had pneumonia
  
• achieved a new record for least pairs of shoes purchased in one year
  
• stopped being insecure
  
• eaten far too much Marmite
  
• become adept in the art of amateur household maintenance
  
• lost the ability to memorise shopping lists
  
• nearly killed a penguin
  
• spent more than a thousand pounds on nappies
  
• tried at least 40 different types of whisky (although not all at once)
  
• become more irregular
  
• accumulated far too many odd socks
  
• accidentally bought a horse
  

A satisfying (if eclectic) list of achievements, I feel. What were you doing seven years ago? I bet it'll surprise you. Unless you happen to be six, in which case (a) sorry for all the swearing, and (b) I'll explain when you're older.

...means, as far as I can work out with my extremely limited Greek and the aid of Google, "fear of lawnmowers" (literally, "grass-shorteners"). I only mention this because someone in the office wanted to know what a fear of lawnmowers was called, and no-one knew the answer. So now they do. Hurrah for the advancement of knowledge!

Of course, given just how shite my Greek is, it could actually mean "fear of short grass", which would be a lot more embarrassing for any putative sufferer of cortokoureutikophobia than a fear of lawnmowers, and would condemn them to an urban rather than a rustic existence, which (in my books) is reason enough to decide not to suffer from it.

Good afternoon time travellers, and thankyou for choosing 2007 as your destination! We hope you enjoy the wide variety of global crises, climatic idiosyncracies, political scandals and tax rises on offer this year. Don't forget, we have a year-round special deal of 50% extra on religious intolerance in the Western Hemisphere - buy now while stocks last!

Cynical? Moi? Surely shome mishtake.

Things are more or less back to normal after the hecticness (hecticity?) of the HK trip; the wee'uns are still feeling the after-effects of two weeks of grandparental spoilage, which The Missus and I are battling with the resigned yet patient air of long-suffering familiarity (and with the frequent aid of The Naughty Step). David (now 20 months old, eek) has turned the simple word "no" into a paragon of linguistic versatility, which he uses variously to mean "I refuse to finish my dinner", "Give me back my teddy immediately", "I want to sit on that chair", "I insist that you leave the TV on", or simply the all-purpose statement "I find the current situation unacceptable". He's perfectly capable of more complex statements, but generally finds that "no", screamed at a sufficient volume, covers most circumstances admirably well. Sarah (now three and a half, double eek) has meanwhile discovered the power of the snub, as she responds to any attempt to discipline her with the (frankly unanswerable) retort, "Well, in that case, you can't come to my party," accompanied by a snobbish tilt of the head and wrinkling of the nose which contrive to indicate just how far beneath her contempt you are. I dread to see what she'll be like when she's thirteen.

At least the Marmite here in the UK tastes proper. They do something to it over there in the Far East, probably for preservation purposes in the humidity - which is fair enough, except that it doesn't taste quite right. (Not as bad as the V-word, but still not quite right.) Marmite should be of a runny-honey consistency, the colour of really rich dark chocolate, with a yeasty/salty smell and intense flavour. In HK, it seems to dry out a bit and go more Twigletty. Or maybe it's just me. On the subject of the Holy Beer Jam, have a look at this - yes, there are people in the world who love Marmite even more than I do, and are prepared to go to astonishing lengths to prove it. I am impressed.