Kitchen thieves: Come clean on doing the dirty

 ‘I’m a Covent Garden soup carton,

 Short and stout. 

Your colleague stole me,

Now I’m pouring out my spout.’

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Such was my tragic revelation this gloomy, grey afternoon (cue violin strings).

Whoever said there were Seven World Wonders, I’ve got a fresh eighth one coming your way – The Mystifying Wonder of Office Food Thefts.

Who seriously thinks, ‘Hmmm, where shall I grab my Soup of The Day? M&S? Itsu? Pure? Pret? The Canteen? Nahhh – The Fridge looked hot-to-trot today. A leery, red horned dude even whispered it’s Grab-One-Get-One-Free! God, I dig this commune – Burning Man vibes all the way 🤘🏼’

Meanwhile, the unwitting victim (yours truly) is sat at a desk; slaving away at an Excel spreadsheet so mind-numbing, I’m just thankful I can no longer feel the clumps of my brain falling out.

One item is my saving grace, my salvation: a rewarding lunch waiting for me, hand-picked and smothered in TLC.

Lunch hour beckons and off I bounce like Bugs Bunny, with a whole new spring in his step.

But wait – Hold Up Bey…it’s not there? 

My fridge search begins delicately, plucking out and placing back items with all the airs and graces of Darcey Bussell. Nimbly dancing around hungry, huffing colleagues as I try to dig deeeeep. I perform my Swan Lake number twice and come to the conclusion: it’s seriously not there…

Alarm bells ring.

Time to leave all poise behind…

I ram my head up shelves; narrowly dodge decapitation; yank lunches out; wrench out ledges; shove my hand down every crevice and heave as my fingers slip onto soggy cheese.

Then I see it; the missing piece to the jigsaw puzzle. The outline of a cuboid, with a slanted beak…short, and stout.

Now I know. Only yesterday lunchtime, when I came up to the fridge, a woman stopped her frantic foraging to remark in tiny, tiny voice, ‘it’s gone…‘. I even consoled the poor thing! Now what do you know it? Just 24 hours later, Jack The Nicker strikes again…

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This prompts me to close with and an open letter to my thief, Jack, and like-minded dirty rotten scoundrels of this world. Take heed…

Dear Jack The Nicker,

You and I are not entirely dissimilar. We do share one interest for sure, food. Although we seem to enjoy ours differently. 

Mine tastes blissful, heavenly, guilt-free. I’ve earnt it, I’ve worked for it, and you may be too blind to see but my name’s stamped all over it. 

As for you, how does it feel – as you dig into your steal with tainted cutlery? Is every gulp not flavoured with guilt? Does every swirl not stir your conscience? Does every lump not remind you of your victim, sadly swallowing their tears?  Does every creaky floorboard not unease you? As you imagine your victim coming to shame you with the thud of a wooden spoon?

Perhaps not, but some more free food for thought…

In the meantime, I’d probably sleep with one eye open? I heard you’ve made karma really, really mad this time and she’s coming for you…. 

xoxo A Good Samaritan 

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