That’s When I Reach For My Revolver

Work is bad for your health. My place, for example, is a dietician’s worst nightmare.

They bake cakes at every opportunity. Children In Need. Red Nose Day. International Talk Like A Pirate Day. Bring Your Teddy To Work Day…

No wonder the lift’s broken.

They also have this tradition that you’re supposed to bring cakes in if it’s your birthday, or you have a kid, or your kid has a birthday, or your goldfish. If you don’t want to tell people how old you are and you don’t have kids or pets you’re allowed to bring cake in for other notable events, so last week we had doughnuts and pasties (interesting combo) because somebody’s hoover was still going strong after five years.*

If you don’t have any other excuse, you can just bring cake in for the sake of it.  The Shoeshy Fingercracker brought some of his home baking in last week, and looked mortified that I didn’t feel like filling my face with baclava at 9am. Jesus, what did he expect? I can just about stomach something sickly-sweet by lunchtime. I hadn’t even managed to digest the latest round of corporate spam (“Quality in 360 Degrees = Operational Excellence”, whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean), and my early-morning wakeup coffee was still on it’s way down my neck.

So that’s my workplace – feeding time at the hippo pool.

 

* (obviously isn’t a Dyson, then).