I’m here today to talk about flooring. The kind people walk on. I’ve seen a lot of floors in my time, from the linoleum tile my dear old mother installed all by herself in our humble kitchen when I was a wee lad, all the way to the 2000-year old tile floor in the Vatican Museum that supports millions of visiting feet per year with nary a scratch … after being transported thousands of miles by slaves and horses, that is! I’ve walked on a lot of floors throughout the entire world, and I can say with absolute honesty that every single one of ‘em has succeeded in supporting my weight; that every last one of ‘em has remained flat and avoided caving in under my feet, thanks to the laws of gravity, strong building materials, and good workmanship. Because I say that the only thing you would ever ask a floor to do is, well, nothing at all! You would ask that floor to stay flat and motionless, and to bear your weight across it, repeatedly, for years on end. You would never ask that floor to cave in under your feet; to crumble pathetically under the weight of a hundred kilo or so; to turn to rubble in the course of nominal daily usage. That’s why floor-makers get paid; I’ll go so far as to venture that’s the only reason they get paid. I claim that the only thing required of a floor is not to cave in. Well, if you’re in agreement with that statement, then you’ll agree that the upper floor of CERN’s Restaurant 2 has utterly, abjectly failed in its incredibly simple mission. This is truly the first floor I have ever encountered that has been unable to bear the strain of human feet, and the failure of it and its builders fills me with a deep-seated disgust and enduring concern.