Cabin fever

Yesterday watched, in between the lifestyle programmes' offerings to the gods of laminated floors and ikea sofas, a programme about rig divers. These guys live in a a pressurised coffin of bunk-beds for 28 days at a time, breathing heliox so they speak like speeding disney characters, slathering chili sauce over their food because nothing tastes of anything at this pressure. And then they, you know, pop down to the bottom of an oil rig to fix things. Six hours in the dark, on the sea floor. Whales go past. Back in their pressurised coffin, one rings home, but his helium voice is just impossible to understand.
"Happy Birthday, son"
"What?"
"Happy birthday"
"I don't understand you. Is that dad?"
"It's dad. I'm ringing you on your birthday. Happy birthday!"
"What?"

Yep.