Houston, we have a problem…

Picture the scene. The Moon. A spaceman stands proudly atop the rim of an impossibly large crater, the Earth a mere glinting jewel reflected in his gold-plated visor.

He breathes easily, cool air pumped silently from his life-support module. He is shielded from the the harsh solar rays by layers of advanced fabrics. His every heartbeat is transmitted back to his home planet, monitoring his vital signs and assessing his well-being thousands of times every second. His suit is bejewelled with myriad twinkling marvels, recording each moment, transmitting statistics, ensuring his safety and comfort and communicating with the spaceman's home planet.

He takes a step down into the crater as a thousand technicians and a billion viewers back home tune in, awestruck at the human adventure unfolding before their very eyes. The Ground Control radio fizzes into life to ask the spaceman what he's feeling at this time, and he replies…

"Aw man, there's this fucking stone in my shoe; this mission sucks!"