My Lovely Spouse has for the last six years, had a Proper Job. Not working for the council, but for a private company, which means that he had an office that wasn't condemned by environmental health, a keyboard that wasn't covered in dried phlegm and cat hair, and most importantly, he got CAKE. Every time someone had a birthday, they bought cakes for all their colleagues. I was dead jealous, working as I did for City of Pork PLC, an organisation in which you have to chop off one of your toes and sacrifice a month's pension contributions if you so much as want to use the photocopier. Anyway, imagine my joy this afternoon when I turned up for work and T. the bus man (he makes them all run by pressing buttons on a tiny remote control on his desk) told me they'd had cakes at a meeting this morning and had saved one for me!
Four o' clock came and I was starving (probably the worms I caught from using council biros) so I went to look for my cake. It was one of those mini Victoria sponges with fresh cream in the middle. I took it from the fridge, returned to my desk and bit into......a rock-hard macaroon filled with Wensleydale cheese. In fact that implies it had some flavour, so scratch that. It was like biting into a cycle helmet.
I tipped it into my colleague's bin (I haven't got my own bin yet - I've only been there five weeks).
Then I logged onto the Jobs and Opportunities bulletin.
S. said that if it was any consolation, he'd got a blueberry muffin and it was wet.
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