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Mug politics

March 16, 2013

The office kitchen is for senior managers and their executive assistants only.

The rest of us have to drink filth out of a machine at 10p a cup. The big shots fish tiny golden keys from their silk-lined pockets. They help themselves to rich foamy coffee, fit to make a barista cry – or bright astringent tea made fresh in a silver pot – and a biscuit. A thick, oaty biscuit, and none of your dog-chocolate coatings either. Nobs.

I still remember the day I lost my key. A bad run in the Emerging Markets Fund, hardly my fault, but someone’s head had to roll. It was mine. These days the withdrawal of tea privileges stands in for actual decapitation: something to be grateful for, I suppose. But today I’ve run out of change and old Fishface McCoy is smirking over his biscuit and this time the humiliation is too much. Maybe I’ll just grab his coffee mug and use it to smash his face in.

I don’t. Of course I don’t.

Instead I wander over to Brian’s desk and tell him McCoy wants to see him. Brian goes mental if he finds anyone using his Casual-Sex-Friday mug.

This is going to be great.


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