The featured photo is our communal fridge at work. Yes, that is a bike lock running through the handle of somebody’s milk. No, it’s not mine.
However, I do admire the spirit of whoever it is. They have bought 2 pints of milk for a specific reason … because they need TWO pints of milk. Not one and a half. Not nearly two but you can nick a bit if you’re desperate. Not help your bastard self.
It gets to Friday, and the purchaser of that milk is gasping for a cup of coffee, white, six sugars. The baby has been awake all night, next door’s car alarm was going off from 4am onwards, and that horrible ginger cat was doing something loud and screechy to the tabby down the road.
Coffee … white … six sugars …
Except all that is left in their bottle is one measly drip of milk, and no matter how much you tip it upside down and shake it about, that drip of milk ain’t multiplying.
“Just have it black,” says a colleague, his milk moustache looking suspiciously familiar. “Actually, now that we’re all out … do you fancy popping to the shops and getting some milk? I’ll give you the money …”
And there’s the rub. It’s never a money thing. Hey, in England you can get 4 pints of milk for one pound these days. It’s that people just can’t be arsed to go to the shops if someone else will. And that they don’t care. And that they’re selfish, thieving cow-juice stealers!
I don’t drink tea or coffee, so the office troubles don’t really affect me. My issue is crisps. People helping themselves to my crisps.
“Ooh, salt and vinegar, can I have one?”
“Errr, we’re standing outside a shop, can’t you buy your own?”
“Come on, I only want one.”
“Hmmm, but I bought a bag of crisps specifically this size, because I want them ALL!”
My stomach has prepared itself for precisely 34.5g of potato-based foods. Not 34g. Not 30g. And NOT 24.5g, when I eventually concede and they shove their paw in deep and pull out the massive crisp that filled the bag. Cheers … mate.
I remember at university people would laugh at my fussiness, mocking me every day for cooking fish fingers and chips. Yet as I walked past those hungry hands, half the plate would disappear before I sat down. I would’ve cooked more if you wanted some! Now I’VE not got enough!!
One of the worst culprits is my best mate, XX (2 letters, starts with E, ends with d). He never seems to have anything in his own fridge, yet when he comes to my house he’s straight into the chocolate drawer, snouting around like a pig in a bowl of apples. Like it’s a special day out for him. Like there’s not a shop TEN yards from his house.
Again, it’s not the money, not for him, not for me. Well, it probably was at Uni, when he used to sneak his bottle of tomato ketchup through the checkout amongst my food. But not now. Now, he just likes to torment me.
I know what you’re thinking. Why not buy more of everything? Prepare for his arrival? Stock up with some spares?
Well, I could do that I suppose … but instead I just hide the Jaffa Cakes when I hear the doorbell ring.
So to all XX’s work colleagues … I feel for you, and I hear Halfords are strong in the combination locks department …