A few weeks ago I became a victim of crime of the pettiest kind. It was Easter Saturday and because I’m a journalist and haven’t had public holidays off for a decade, I was at work instead of being on holiday like the rest of the public who had the sense to choose proper jobs. Working late, I spent my dinner break at the supermarket picking up all the bits I needed for Easter Sunday lunch. The shops would shut and wouldn’t reopen until Monday. This was my last chance to secure provisions for my family.
As the only unmarried, childless woman, I’m not trusted to bring any grown-up dishes that require access to a heat source. Instead I’m only allowed to bring the cheeses and dips for appetisers, something even I can’t ruin. It’s just a step above “ice” on the “pity bring” list and two above “plastic cups”. The offering of someone whose cooking competence is just above peeling the plastic off a few Babybels.
Over the years I’ve taken it as less of an insult and more as an opportunity. Previously, the entrées were controlled by my mother and an alliance of matriarchs like her who believed that eating anything in the prior 49 hours to a roast dinner would ruin your appetite. Which to me, who hates roast dinners, is entirely the point. Why choke down Brussels sprouts that smell like farts both before and after they’re digested when you can scarf an entire wheel of Brie and an amusement of quince paste. “Don’t fill up on crackers!” As if that’s not exactly what they’re made for. Roast dinners are just a vehicle for gravy. Just slam down a cup of it as a shot and let the rest of us enjoy rosemary-coated breadsticks and marinated goat’s cheese in peace. The way Jesus would have wanted us to.
I take my job very seriously, even if others don’t. I raked over the shelves picking out crowd-pleasers. The big guns. The brand-name lads. Crumbly cheddars. Foreign-sounding cheeses with accents. A cheeky little Manchego. Then the own-brand wheels of Camembert because this is not the Celtic Tiger. Some hummus and tzatziki followed, along with some French onion dip because I knew my mum would be suspicious of any food stuff she couldn’t spell. The long queues ate into my break, so I raced back up into the office and fired the goods into the fridge.
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Previous emails had warned me of the moral dangers of shoving grocery bags of food into the fridge, taking up more room than necessary, so I took only the items that needed refrigeration – the cheeses and the dips – and placed them on an empty shelf up the top. I hesitated for a moment on the possibility they’d prove too tempting for someone to take or accidentally get thrown out by the cleaners. But the cleaners don’t come on Saturday nights and I only had 2½ hours left of my shift in a mostly empty office. I was just being paranoid. They’d be right. I needed to have more faith in people.
I was proven wrong on my way out when I discovered an empty spot where my cheeses had been – and new trust issues. Not wanting to jump to conclusions, I convinced myself maybe someone had accidentally thrown them out, thinking they were out of date. Until I realised only the own-brand ones had been left behind and the posh ones pilfered.
I cursed the alleged thieves, who seemed to be calling me cheap by leaving the unbranded cheese and dips behind. I demanded satisfaction. But realistically there was nothing I could do in the situation that would be a dignified response. Go and tell the teacher (our boss?).
Or leave a passive-aggressive note on the fridge? “TO WHOM THIS MAY CONCERN. I hope you enjoyed MY CHEESE that YOU TOOK WITHOUT PERMISSION. The night before all shops were shut, which meant I couldn’t buy more. Just know that you took food (appetisers) from the mouths of my family’s children (my niece and nephews who probably ate their weight in chocolate by 10am anyway), so I hope you needed it more than them xxx (smiley face). FROM BRIANNA.”
[ I am the butt of my friends’ and family’s jokes because I can’t driveOpens in new window ]
I wouldn’t get my cheese or respect back from my colleagues. There was nothing to do but to accept I was the victim of the most middle-class crime ever committed – upscale cheese robbery from an office fridge. So in the spirit of Easter I did what Jesus would do and turned the other cheek – while keeping one eye open for tell-tale wrappers in the office bin.
