It’s another Oxford Day. I found out this morning that for the last few months I’ve been using the receptionist’s oat milk.
My colleagues think it’s fair game because she hadn’t labelled it, and - this is more to the point I think - it’s been in a fridge in the communal kitchen. I still felt bad though. She stopped me mid pour, black tea steaming around the carton.
She was really alright about it. I was immediately British and told her how embarrassed I was, as she told me not to worry as it only cost 72p. Bright red and apologetic, I swiped my tea away and completely forgot to ask her where on earth she bought oat milk for 72p.
Loads of people in the office today. You know, I think I like it when there are just a handful. The noise can get unworkable with four or five cross-conversations going on and once again I had to be rescued by my white noise playlist.
Actually, I burst into tears a couple of times. Exhaustion I think. Plus, as you know, I seem to have been living on the stinging edge of tears for a long time now - doesn’t take a lot to break me. I ought to analyse why, one of these days, when I’m brave enough.
I thought about joking about the oat milk with the receptionist on my way out. I don’t know. It felt like if I had, she’d have laughed, waited for me to leave, then rolled her eyes and called me something unpleasant. I didn’t like that thought, so I didn’t mention it.
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