At the Watercooler

Since the dawn of time, or at least since watercooler's were available, the US have coined the above phrase as the literal hub of office gossipry and brag-a-thons. It wasn't until recently that we on the correct side ofthe Atlantic started to copy it - irrespective of whether we even have water chilling facilities in the office. I didn't mind so much when we had to change the name of Marathon to Snickers (in fact, there's a funny Paula Radcliffe joke about that), but I still adamantly refuse and stamp my feet in an act-your-shoe-size manner about changing Opal Fruits to Starburst. As for Oil of Ulay/Olay - I couldn't give a monkey's, although I always thought the Mother's Day/Christmas present commercials somewhat insulting (strictly on my mother's behalf, of course).

Anyway, I digress.

With many of my colleagues talking about which countries they're going to visit for their summer holidays while the kids have broken up for the summer, or what they had for dinner the night before (although wholesome topics, I'm sure, it's not my cup of tea), I'm getting my watercooler moment, albeit to myself, and on a much wider scope.

This now brings me to my first big problem - what do total strangers talk about around their watercoolers?

Could the egg that tells you exactly when it's perfectly cooked be today's major muse? Or the fact that James Blunt is the #4 most annoying thing in the world, behind cold callers, caravans and queue jumpers? I don't know, but Top of the Pops, which inflicted Jimmy Saville and Noel Edmonds on us on primetime TV must ring a little nostalgia for many (though perhaps not for a chap of 1982).

My domain of discussion today isn't the double Big Brother eviction on Friday night, the England thrashing of Pakistan on Saturday, nor the closing points deficit between Michael Schumacher and Fernando Alonso on Sunday, but the fire at Pinewood Studios.

Okay, so the Carry-On films were made there, and Hitchcock honed his directing skills there, but this is has also been the home of James Bond since 1962. Fortunately, the sets for this year's Bond film had been dismantled and taken away only a day or so before, but it's got me thinking (the tabloids would only bring it up otherwise), accident or arson?

Might vandals have finally done to bond what Oddjob, Blofeld and Scaramanga failed to do?

I'm now going to have my lunchtime Mars bar before the name changes to Pluto to demonstrate how much smaller they've become these days.