DON'T TOUCH THE ART. RAWR.

Occasionally I get roped into the least relaxing job of all time: guard duty at the museum. The current exhibition features a room full of enormous playthings, and we need to make sure that absolutely no one touches them.

This is inexplicably difficult. Grown men and women leap over the "do not touch" signs and lines on the ground in attempts to topple the art in a ferocious embrace. Little children are obviously worse, and I'm averaging about two brain aneurysms for every time one walks in the room, though I'm prepared to tackle them mercilessly to the ground at any moment if they get too close. I now understand why policemen are so bitter: constantly stopping people from doing stupid things makes me hate everyone in the room almost as much as I hate everyone in over-crowded dining halls, or tofu.

So all I can do is growl at them to take a step back. I will admit to having resorted to using a loudspeaker to get my way.