War of the Spoon

War of the Spoon

While working for my last company, I encountered a very strange practice whereby all the cutlery in the staff kitchen – particularly the teaspoons – all had little holes drilled into them.
When I asked why our entire cutlery collection was riddled with holes, I was told it was to “discourage petty theft.” Apparently, teaspoons are right up there with staplers and pencils when it comes to office theft. Bizarre but true.

Somewhere out there, someone has a full collection of holey cutlery.

When I resigned, I decided to take with me a memento. A keepsake, if you will.
So, in a true twist of irony, I took the only spoon in the kitchen that was whole. Un-hole. Hole-less. You get my drift.
After starting at my new company, I discovered that the staff kitchen did not even have cutlery.

Clearly these people had not heard of the wonders of drilling holes in eating utensils…

Never fear, I knew just what to do. I brought my newly stolen spoon to work.

Life was good. We had many breakfasts, my spoon and I. We had a symbiotic relationship. She would shovel granola into my mouth. And I. I would eat it. Absolute bliss.

Then I went through a period of having breakfast at home, so my spoon went un-used for about a week or so. This is where everything went positively pear shaped.

After my spoon-less period, I reverted back to eating breakfast at the office. So, one frosty Monday morning, I went through to the kitchen to pour my bowl of granola. There I was, doing my oats – literally - while in the corner (all possum-like) stood The Woman. She was peering (again, all possum-like) into the microwave, transfixed by her little bowl of fiber-packed goop doing the circuit.

It came to spoon time. Where is my spoon? WHERE WHERE WHERE – ahhhhhh there it is – on the sink – clean and sparkling and ready to do my bidding. I took it in my hot little hands and headed for the door.

That’s when it happened. This possum of a woman turned and exclaimed – “Hey that’s MY spoon” and with that, she swooped down and literally just took the spoon out of my hot little hands.
This Possum Woman had taken my spoon like taking the proverbial candy from a baby. I felt mugged!
I went into kind of a state of shock – I call it spoonshock – the inability to speak, move or jab a sharp object in the heart of my aggressor.
Spoonshock turned to outrage. The war is ON. That was MY stolen spoon and NO ONE is going to steal it from me, I thought as I shoveled my granola with a hideously bendy plastic spoon, left over from the previous days takeout.
I hatched my plan. . .

That afternoon, I crept back to the kitchen and re-stole what was rightfully mine, all the while sniggering my evil snigger. Back home it went, and once again everything was right in the world. Justice had been served.

I watched with utter glee the next day as The Possum searched in vain for “her spoon” and eventually had to settle for one of theses unwieldy plastic jobs. Ah yes, I thought as I peered at her from my desk. Ferret 1, Possum 0.

I am planning to leave an anonymous ransom note on her desk with cutout letters
“I have your spoon. Do you have the money?” along with a picture of the spoon in some compromising position. I will threaten to drill a whole in the concave head if she refuses to meet my demands, and am hoping to become a serious menace to her. Perhaps I should steal her bowl too – that would really cause her to lose some possum-sleep. Bloody thief. I stole it first.

Have you had a war at work? People steal your food? Got revenge? Tell me your story.