While I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a foodie I love nothing more than eating. When I am in work however, I don’t exactly give over much time to fuss over fine cuisine. Most lunch times involve a dash to the cafeteria for a packet of crisps and a cup-a-soup (I know, I know they are so bad for you and filled with chemicals and too much salt).
I occasionally wander into the kitchen, and gaze at the healthy advertising ladies with their homemade hummus and avocado, quinoa salads and ponder as to how I became such a lazy food fiend. But then I make myself a Nespresso from our new fancy machine and feel a lot better. I do have quinoa days, but those are pretty far and few between.
For me, the upside to food at work, and probably the reason I haven’t yet developed scurvy, is that I sit very close to a food writer.
Picture the scene; a grey day, your tummy rumbles and then you hear the door swing open and look up to see a delivery man from across the room, with a huge box in his arms. You pretend not to stare, not to hope that he is walking in the direction you hope he’s walking in. But he is, and you hear your tummy rumbling even more as he leaves the box down at Marie-Claire Digby’s desk (two down from you). You listen with your back to her as Sellotape gets ripped off and she asks for a knife.
Things go quiet for what feels like a lifetime and then you hear the words you were longing to hear . . . “Oh what a beautiful cake/ barm brack/ pizza/ chocolate slab. I’m just going to leave it in the kitchen if anyone wants it.”
You count to five . . . and then you run.
