I have spent the last three weeks narrowly avoiding a courtmartial at Starfleet headquarters on Earth.

It all started when Spock stole my fake tan "for analysis". He said it smelt of Uranium. I had no idea that it was dangerous. Anyway, I beamed him down onto a passing asteroid for a laugh. Nobody told me that Asteroids don't have any atmosphere (kind of like Spocks birthday parties). Luckily, Scotty beamed him back up before he suffocated.

He reported me to Starfleet Command and I ended up in New Brussels on trial.

Unfortunately, on the last day of the case I got a little carried away. At first, the jury were putty in my hands as I strode about the courtroom emoting passionately on the introverted torture of my suntan addiction. But they started to look a little confused at the climax of my closing statement when I fell to my knees and sobbed as the powerful strains of 'Moonlight Sonata' materialised as if from nowhere. Even the judge looked peturbed at being unable to locate the source of the music.

Sensing that I was losing them, I forward rolled into a crouch and yelped like a puppy to express the pain and solitude of my crippling condition.

There was silence.

I had them!

But no..

Everybody was staring not at me, but at the floor. The tape recorder hidden inside my shirt had fallen to the ground and shattered, spilling its guts everywhere. Somehow, my top had mysteriously torn.

I got away with it though. I'm back on board and Spock has a restraining order so that he cannot go within 5 metres of me or my washbag. It makes away missions a bit of a logistical nightmare, but I don't care. He's not happy.

Ha ha!

It's amazing what the promise of an Romulan Erogenous Magnification Generator and incriminating CCTV will do to grease the impulse engines of power......