You took your daughter to the slaughter, now she's a PR in a pashmina scarf, are you proud?

As Sartre - or was it Camus? (you'd think I'd look this up, wouldn't you) - said, or would have done if he had taken a moment to be more specific, 'Hell is other people's children'. I wonder if other countries have the tradition of Half Term. The arrangement by which, a few weeks after the little bastards have been rounded up and confined they are set free again for a week.

From a humanitarian point of view I can only be in favour - the more holiday people can get, teachers or children, the better. I've vague memories of having been subject to the same conditions once, and I know I was glad of it. But, with the prime purpose of schools being to act as juvenile holding pens while the parents service the economy, this can lead to a return to the tradition of taking your offspring with you while you till the fields.

Like Welsh or Self said in a book title (you'd think I'd...) 'If you liked school you'll love work'. What a way to spend a day. And the poor little sod doesn't even get paid for it. Things have improved for them slightly: where once there was a sheaf of A4 hoicked out of the printer, two ballpoints and dry-wipe marker to play with, now they have internet access. And a whole new set of content filters and firewalls to get around.

A more proactive parent will seize upon the opportunity to inculcate their spawn into the ways of paid employment, subjecting them to that baleful practice known as 'shadowing'. Which, as with the adult equivalent, means dragging them around the weary circuit of meetings, presentations, and one-to-one line management appraisals ("And now darling, I'm going to make one of my colleagues cry. You see, it's just like school!").

The stifling effect of having a child present at a meeting is inestimable. It is almost impossible to conduct proceedings without resort to innuendo and expletive - if you can't swear and impugn the proclivities of colleagues absent and present, how are matters to be taken forward to a satisfactory conclusion? Unfair on the under-sized participant too - they can hardly duck out with the usual formulae of polite decline: 'Would love to, but I'm not sure my presence would add value' or 'Sorry, have to crack on with something terribly urgent that sits rather higher on my ladder of priorities', or even my current favourite: 'I'd rather eat sand.' Then, when the introductions drag around the room, poor Junior not only has the embarrassment of the same surname as the person they are sitting next to, but has to substitute 'cause my mum said' for their organisation of origin.

Of course they might bring fresh perspectives: powder paint instead of Powerpoint for presentations, angry red crayon instead of track changes for those contentious drafts. And as for spreadsheets, I've always believed that any figure that cannot be worked out one person's fingers and toes is Too Big, and also Rude.

Never work, ever

In a meeting, this morning, someone actually used the phrase: "A basket of deliverables." He really said that. Without apparent irony. One of these days I will bite my tongue so hard it will bleed.

I took the afternoon off.

On the bus, looking down into the shops, it occurred to me: what must it be like to be a security guard in Mothercare? Sending for the cops to deal with persistent mitten thieves. Detain one person and get a smaller one free. The defendant and the dependant. I wonder if they burn out quickly, or become somehow immune.

Are you sitting comfortably?

Radio 4 doesn't get much more despicable than 'Money Box'.

It tries, with 'Brain of Britain' (you know that moral dilemma scenario in which the question is: 'If you could go back in time and assassinate Hitler, would you?' Well, Robert Robinson is alive now, and broadcasting now, and some questions just shouldn't be asked).

It tries very hard, with 'You and Yours' (a programme devised by the Confederation of British Industry to drive the work-free out of their homes and into factories, offices, schools, brothels and other places of labour just by its utter inanity).

But for sheer nauseation value the 'Money Box' formula can't be beaten, unless by more extreme strains of this cancer of the radio, 'Money Box Live', and recently 'Money Box Live Special'.

Oh, it's a fine idea in theory, advising the ordinary person about matters financial in language they can understand. It empowers and it enables, equipping the individual to do battle with Big Capitalism by evening up the knowledge imbalance.

But then, just listen to it. Caller after caller, venal grasping scum, the sodding lot of them, bleating their craven insecurities and tremulous greed. Take the other night for instance, here's 'Margaret in Droitwich':

'I have three ISAs: one cash, two mixed; buy-to-let properties in Bulgaria and Bromsgrove; a portfolio of investments in commodities... and some antiques.'

'And what is your question Margaret?'

'Oh, I don't have a question, I'm just a smug git who likes telling everyone about all my money. Moneeeee... moneeeeee...' Etc.

Okay, so I changed her name. And paraphrased a little. But otherwise, that's what it's like.

Maybe I should listen to the radio less.

The FT and the WSJ are the new Funny Pages

Grotesque notion that Iceland should find themselves compelled to approach those vultures the IMF. I know they had a flutter and lost, and so theoretically all is fair at the poker table. But the IMF? Telling proud Norse folk that they should "...like, totally cease social provision, deregulate their economy, flog off their natural energy and marine resources wholesale at bargain prices to a favoured multinational and offer their daughters and cuter sons up at auction..." etc. No, that's not right, and about halfway through tomorrow morning I think that nation will remember that for them there is an alternative.

Viking, being also a verb, is like riding a bicycle, only more so, I would imagine, in that once it's in your genetic inheritance the skill and instinct comes back in a trice. Remember the Cod War? No, I don't either, quite, but all I've read suggests they gave us what for.

The solution is close at hand. Iceland, may I offer you London? The Thames is navigable for container ships as far as Tilbury, gunboats and lighter craft can probably get as far Richmond with no bother, depending on the tide. Don't worry about the Royal Navy, they're still tied up out east. Army ditto. As for the cops, ha, ha. Your opposition will consist of some overweight wheezing PCSOs and numerous catatonic security guards. Short work for the halberd and axe.

You won't need all of it, just the juicy bits. I'll draw you a map, like the sort our tourist board gives to visitors. Chelsea's on the river, Knightsbridge up the road, you're welcome to it. You already have most of Regent Street. Take the lot. Just let me know when you'll be dropping by so I can be out of town for the weekend.