Psst!



What?



You're on!



No, I'm not! I'm at home. What are you doing here?



Um. This is supposed to be a remote broadcast, isn't it?



It's a sick day, you moron! I called in sick!



Ah. Well, according to your contract, you aren't allowed to be sick unless you are unable to speak, in which case you have to sign to an interpreter who will speak for you...



I'll have my lawyer speak for me. This is outrageous! I'm ill and I am entitled to my privacy!



Eh. No, you're not. You signed it away.



Not with a pen, I didn't!



No, but in the way you flourished the pen while appending your signiatture to the amended copy of the offending document.



That's not legal!



To a blind judge, it is.



What?



Well, see, the paper you signed not only had the written legal boilerplate but it also had a bit in fine print Braille...



That's sneaky and underhanded...


Your mother told us you'd say that, but as your legal guardian...


What?



You didn't know? When you entered the broadcast industry, the Royal Academy of Commitment Specialists and Sectioning Mavens had to find someone to take care of your affairs in case you had a sudden attack of common sense. Your mother was the least sensical relative or person close to you that they could find.



Eh. There's a fly in your logic.



What's that?



Well, if I am, for the sake of argument, for the moment, non-compass mentice, or whatever it is...



Ooo! That's good. You've done better than 86.34% of the respondents in a Daily Mirror poll of recent Uni drop-outs in Bournemouth...



At what?



With that phrase!


What phrase?


The one you just spoke.



You can't say it?



Ah. No. I never went to Uni in Bournemouth.



Huh?