Lunchtime at the Office

Grim office necessitates a nice lunch...

A grim office necessitates a nice lunch…

When I’m at work, I’d say that lunchtime is my favourite time of day
Kick back with some food and read a bit of the news-papiér
But man, a fiver for a shop-made sandwich? You must be taking the piss!
I guess a few days of bringing in a packed lunch wouldn’t go amiss
I say this every week, but I’m really gonna do it this time
So I go home that evening and cook up a delight
A massive pasta dish, big enough to eat some that night
And still bring some into work on any day I like
And so the next day, I’m at my desk at 12:49
I figure, it’s gotta be time
And so I pop the lid on my tupperware – the contents look pretty nice
I smell it thrice
As a chef, I’m in the prime of my life
But what I realise next makes me fall to my knees on the floor
Oh shit! Oh crap! I haven’t brought a bloody fork!
Oh doooooot, I ought’a beeeeep, why didn’t I dooooot, beeeep, doooot?!?
Owhhhhhhh!
I’ve got no fork to eat my penne with ham
My shells with lamb
My mac and cheese or spag and spam
I can’t just eat it with my hands
They’re so dirty from the undergraaand
Note to self: next time, bring in some goddamn utensils
So you stand a chance of consuming these sauce-covered vegetables
By now, I’ve put the paper down
I’ve tried to pour the pasta in my mouth
But it’s nout doing
I’m full of self-loathing… but hang about
I’ve come up with a solution
A way to eat my food without transferring the pollution
From my fingers to my bloodstream
Think where you are: it’s Great Britain
There’ll surely be a teaspoon somewhere in the kitchen!
… man, that’s just not the right size
I can see that pretty clearly using only my eyes
But I’m desperate now, so I dip it in anyway
And what do I find?
I can’t pick up enough to have a single bloody bite
Surely I can’t eat these beautiful bow ties half a piece at a time
And suddenly, I snap
My forgetfulness has hurt my pride
I run out onto the street, screaming
“Who am I?!?”

I take a seat at a bus stop; I’m crying, I’m sweating
My day has been spoiled and my trousers are soiled
“How’s it going?” Asks the lady sitting next to me on the bench
I suppose that she’s homeless
I can tell from the stench, though, through the tears, my sight is still hazy
“I’m not good”, I exclaim
“But do you want this tub of pasta, maybe? It’s been driving me crazy!”
She takes with sheer delight my meal of fusilli and pork
Then she looks as me and asks: “By any chance, have you got a fork?”
“Nope, sorry”
“Oh well, it doesn’t matter, beggars can’t be choosers!” she says
As she eats her lunch with her hands, like so many times before
In hostels and on the streets, amongst the rubbish and cars
We choosers can’t comprehend just how lucky we are

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