Riddle me this, riddle me twat.

Three things, before I start:

a) I am, always have been, and always will be, a chicken. Not the cute feathery kind, but the wimpy cowardly kind.

b) In this post I'll use the noun 'text' as a verb, which it decidedly is not. It pains my soul to have to slap the English language in the face like this, but I couldn't think of a decent alternative.

c) There's a riddle somewhere in this post. I won't tell you the answer, so feel free to solve it in the comments section. I still have that lifetime supply of nymphomaniac Swedish groupies stuffed in my cupboard, so good luck.

There I was, working my ass off in the middle of the night; it was around 6 am-ish, so end of shift was in sight. I could already feel my snug bed, waiting for me, beckoning me. I was in one of the many corridors of the huge warehouse I work at, lugging some heavy-ass boxes around, and absentmindedly listening to the radio. Inbetween a shitload of classic (read: crappy) 80s music, the DJ came on and he did what DJ's get paid to do; he started yapping.

Apparently he'd asked people to text (aaargh!) him riddles and jokes, and he was telling a few. At some point he said he'd reached the final riddle, and that if the listener knew the answer, they could text him. He proceeded by giving the riddle:

"I am what I am, but as soon as you know what I am, I am no longer what I am."

I, being highly intelligent and extremely bored respectively knew the answer and decided to grab my phone and text him. So I did.

And he called back.

Now, the company I work for has a policy; mobile phones aren't allowed on the workfloor. We have this internal communication system, and phones could interfere with that. Everybody knows that's bullshit, and everybody in the building has a mobile phone, and everybody knows that everybody in the building has a mobile phone. There's just this unwritten rule; don't use your phone when your boss is in sight.

All of that went through my head as I stood there, with my vibrating phone in my hand. What if I answer, and the big kahuna walks by? I mean, I won't be able to hang up on national radio, will I?

And then it hit me. Who am I kidding, I thought, after I realised that my entire internal monologue about forbidden phones was just a clever ploy to distract me from the fact that I was simply too much of a chicken to answer that damn phone. So I just put it back in my pocket, and let it ring.

They called twice, to no avail.

And get this. Ten minutes later, when the song was over, the DJ came back on and said he had a caller. He did. The caller gave the correct answer, and won a ten day trip to someplace exotic. I was about to start scratching my eyes out when I realised that this last bit is a complete lie. Phew, close call, there.

They did play my outgoing voicemail message, though - that was kinda cool.

Cheers