Free Food

A fortnight ago, Cambridge experienced an evening of heavy rain, lightning and thunder. When I shared this with friends not from Cambridge, they heard me out and tried to be nice. It was clear that they didn’t believe that it could have occurred - a five hour long thunderstorm in a region more famous for being one of the drier ones in the country? The BBC failed to predict it, and if the Gods were the BBC the clouds were them playing a match of rugby. Ordinarily, on a dry day in a desert this would have been a blessing.

It was like a perfect murder, no one believed it because there was no evidence. The weather forecasters said, “Clear sky,” and the minor local mishaps did not reach the press afterwards. I became the victim of a twisted celestial game of hide and seek, like a true detective solving a crime, he knows what occurred but does not have proof to show because the villain was really good at covering his tracks.

In retrospect, my life has turned into a game of cat and mouse, but without the funny deerstalker hat (as made famous by resident of 221B). Like a sixteenth century alchemist, I sit (or stand) in my blotched lab coat carrying out experiments botched by unexplained forces. I absolutely know what is going on, but something or the other keeps screwing with the system so that I am unable to gather the proof I need to nail the hypothesis. This leaves me unsatisfied. And like a true detective, I don’t move on, but only rest awhile to recharge my “need for closure” batteries. My body needs food like batteries need charging. So, like the impoverished artist who lives on the pittance of rich people believing in their talent, I scrape through my days scourging the foyers and gardens for free food.

The day after the thunderstorm, there was a barbeque organised by our department, a yearly event to help congregate all the pale and listless looking creatures of the department of psychiatry, giving them a chance to bathe in the sun and bring their immured brains back to life, albeit for an afternoon. It is the most sought after event in our departmental calendar, and it involves queuing up for a sandwich of hog roast served by a predetermined caterer, and a slap on the wrist for going Oliver Twist on them and asking for seconds. God forbid if the caterers run out of hog and die of hypoglycaemic shock. They will never be able to make use of their £400 apple watches to update their friends on how they duped us.

As it happened, and maybe the thunderstorm the night before was responsible, their scheme failed. As the zombies hoarded for their last free meal before the apocalypse, the caterers thought, “These guys are easy. No one will notice that pig we roasted drank all the water from the storm drain last night.”

So we all lined up as usual, no questions asked, tolerant as always - a very British gathering. We chomped away on our sandwiches and boiled salmon steaks and sour strawberries, and lo and behold before twenty-four hours passed we were are confined to the cosy privacy of our toilets. More than thirty of us, which was almost the whole gathering, save for a few embarrassed individuals who were not comfortable discussing about what came out of their body.

I would have normally shrugged my shoulder and moved on, like a diligent zombie. But this time, and again I am sure some celestial tomfoolery was at play, the British sensibilities flew out of the window, like a tarpaulin removed by a gust of wind from the top of Pandora’s box, revealing  a sense of paranoia usually well disguised behind Pagliacci masks. It is in these times that the British make the most sense. It is in these times that the British fall victims to all that they subtly deride the rest of the year, bursting into fits of impotent rage and panic in the process. It is during these times that zombies for a brief moment show glimpses of their human past.

Toilets were deep cleaned and stool samples were collected. The district council was informed and questionnaires were completed. If litigation followed, the caterers would surely be doomed, and most definitely have to sell their apple watches to the highest bidders.

It couldn’t have ended nicely, and we all know how in a video game the evil zombies always outnumber the human heroes. Although in this case the zombie Goliath (university people) was the victim and tiny David (poor little pink piggy caterers), the mischievous prankster.

But it’s a risk I am willing to accept in this frugal hand to mouth existence, and there is no need for pity, because I am not alone. Although pity for us all might be a good thing. This would only mean more free food, which is counterintuitive so I must stop. More free food will only mean more rotten shrimp and bone-dry pasties and of course roast of hogs drinking drain water.

But the wide-eyed stare at the foyer from the staircase or at the garden from the glass door, at wine glasses filled with apple juice and trays of cold sandwiches and canapés, and desiccated gluten free options, and at queues of famished research students saving their TESCO wraps for an evening bite, is just priceless and worth turning up for work every day.