It is not often that I'm at a loss for words. But the familiar polka dot tin, plonked on my desk by the Feckless German Traitor leaves me gawping like an adolescent goldfish. That tin belongs to the Friggin' Domestic Goddess who is at home nursing her sick 9 year old. I make futile gestures as my puny mind tries to comprehend the facts, while absently attempting to lift the tin. Fuck. It weighs about 4.5 kilos. Taa da! A lid nudge reveals a layer of rainbow colour lemon slices boldly disguising a hesitant layer of marble cake, even as the chocolate brownies shy away demurely at the bottom of the tin. Unfrigginbelievable! That woman has not only managed to bake 3; 3 friggin' cakes, she's got into the office before I have, and poof... disappeared in a puff of cigarette smoke. My heart is so full, it could burst, spewing blood, tissue, muscle, valves and general gore all over the 4th floor. The imagery pleases me, and I lug the tin around, grinning like the village idiot.
It feels fabulous to be 21 again, and the silliness knows no bounds as people start feeling sick even as the mountain of cake is gradually reduced to a rubble. A surprise package! Ta da! Gasp! More chocolates. Mountains and mountains of chocolates.... the 4th floor loves me and my 'Yaan'. The giggles won't abate, and the afternoon sees me bouncing off the walls like a cat on coke. 4 o'clock. and I'm holding my head in my hands, flanked by a forlorn polka dotted tin littered with the debris of what once was cake(s) and a ravaged box of truffles. What used to be my desk, resembles a successful car bombing, more poignant for the occasional moans begging for mercy that punctuate the air.
39 years, and I am finally able to commiserate with migraine sufferers (hitherto eyed with unadorned scorn) as the aspirin does little to ease the dull, yet steady thrum of power tools wielded by vicious miniature Bob-the-Builders who have annexed my head. My delirious mind tells me that I've just found a perfect crime. Kiss a diabetic into renal failure. I feel sick. The FGT pops a paracetamol, and Liz is looking green around the gills. The alcohol in the truffles is making the Scot go 'Oh Apara' and the Kiwi is rooting around the debris for a non existent brownie. This is what anarchy in the workplace looks like....
An unsuspecting visitor to the 4th floor backs of warily as four pairs of jaundiced eyes telegraph, 'fuck off', in response to a chirpy, "So, what are you doing tonight?"
Recover. I hope.
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