h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

As I sit, Dear Reader, contemplating the day's events, my mind turns to thoughts of higher things and I find myself wondering - what if a jar of pickles were to fall from the shelf at work and break on the floor, would it make a sound? Maybe not, I think, but I would have to clean the bloody mess up in the morning...
I have often cogitated about the thought of the senses: are they to be trusted, Dear Reader? Is my sense of smell actually real, or does Mrs Thompson who comes in on Thursdays, really pong like unwashed nappies or is my mind deluding me? What about my hearing, is it all that infallible? Do I really here the taunts of those horrid little ruffians from the estate down the road as I cycle past on my Standish two-stroke velocipede or does the brain play tricks upon me? I will think on this further.
As I sit longer and my eyes alight on the fireplace before me, I realise that it is 11.00 am and I have completely forgotten to go to work today. Is this true, or am I dreaming that I am a Chinese philosopher dreaming that I am a butterfly dreaming that he is a grocer's assistant who has forgotten to go to work today? I decide to test my theory by taking out the hot poker from the embers of the fire and jam it into my upper thigh. It is here that I discover that, though I am alone in my flat, I still make a noise as I scream out in pain. Scrub theory one about noises...
The postman has just arrived, Dear Reader, and prompts me to continue questioning my senses - did he really say "Up yours" when I enquired as to the reason for the shodiness of his uniform, or did my sense of hearing merely garble his, very probably erudite, reply?