The Politics of a Special K bar

                                         

Working from home, a blissful thing. Warm, comfortable, loungy; it’s practically a day off.

Your bed becomes your office, your duvet your desk, and the closest thing to colleagues are those friendly faces on your box. Lorraine, Loose Women, how I’ve missed you.

Feeling Sleepy? No bother, take a nap.

Thirsty? Don’t sweat it. Grab your favourite mug and fill it with a chocolate orange Options sachet. Better yet, lace it with a few spills of brandy.

What’s that? Hungry? No worries. Just... erm... well actually... you could... ah... there’s always...

Crap.

It’s Monday and the cupboards are bare. To be fair that’s pretty usual for me no matter what day of the week it is, but today it’s a problem as leaving the house negates the whole wonder of the duvet day. No, I simply won’t. So I must turn to plan B and scour the kitchen for sustenance.

But the shelves are empty.

Well strictly speaking, this isn’t true. My cupboards are actually strangely full, so much so that upon opening them I have to dodge precariously crammed cans of tinned sausages my housemate proudly saves for rainy days. Yes, technically full they are, but in terms of edible content, the offerings are slim. Flour, tomato ketchup, half a pack of poppadoms, pineapple chunks, and vanilla food essence. Even Heston Blumenthal would be uninspired.

Desperate, I continue to hunt, whilst simultaneously pushing the increasingly tempting pineapple-poppadom-combination from my mind. Then I see it. Tucked behind an old Golden Vegetable Cup-A-Soup Sachet, my old nemesis sits.

The Special K bar.

Slightly squashed, sure, but smug nonetheless, it flaunts its long shelf-life at me proudly.

Let me elaborate.

It was a while back, when I was working an office job.

A former colleague of mine had reprimanded me for displaying what she called ‘favourable behaviour’ towards certain colleagues. It isn’t how it sounds. She told me that people in the office felt I dedicated too much time to one team and not enough to another. Only later did I realise that nobody thought this and my colleague in question simply disliked my popularity amongst the team she could not ingratiate herself with.

At the time she threatened me, told me I wasn’t pulling my weight and that if someone from the team had to go it would be me. She was my senior and I lapsed, nodding and wilting, but inside I was enraged. I quietly stewed for the afternoon, until she approached with a peace offering.

A Kellog’s Special K Red Berry bar.

“Thank you for taking the criticism so well” she offered.

I was taken aback. Not by the generosity of gifting a delicious yet low-cal afternoon treat, but by the sinister game-playing behind it. She cannot be serious!

It was like a game of chess. I, a lowly pawn, and she, a slightly higher but clearly lonely pawn (with her sights set on becoming a Queen) did face it off.

My move.

If I take the bar, I take the criticism. I accept what she says to be fact, I agree with her and she has the power.

If I refuse, I cause a rift, I create an issue, and the game continues.

We lock eyes.

She shakes the shiny wrapper at me and I can’t help but marvel at her genius. To offer me something so meaningless as a fucking cereal bar.

Bitch.

Clever, crafty, brilliant bitch.

I take the bar, but eat it I shan't, I told myself.

Instead the bar quietly festered, albeit pristinely, in my cupboard at home, never eaten, until today.

I’m hungry, okay?