On one of my meandering journeys to the printer I look over the cakes, I'm hungry and they look good, and she's been particularly generous in the variety and the quality. I wonder if this is linked to it being her 50th, a benchmark birthday, but push the thought away as too depressing. The idea of her deciding to splash out on office cakes as she's reached a half century for some reason horrifies me. I'm aware I'm over thinking the entire situation, after all people would no doubt say, 'it's just nice'. Yes, you're right. It's nice to be nice isn't it? You can't have an issue with niceness, though I would say it is the beige of human acts and emotions. Nice is boring. It's very, very boring, I feel a diversionary rant coming on so I'm going to scuttle back to my original point before I lose my thread.
So the cakes are there, and frankly I'd quite like a one. But herein lies the problem. I've never directly spoken to the woman, never said good morning (actually maybe once) and have absolutely no relationship with her. I work near her, but not with her, and know nothing about her except that she's 50, looks it and is overweight (probably all those cakes). So here we are, I want the cakes she's sluttishly flaunting like a confectionary whore, and she's sent round an email to salaciously tempt me towards them. But as I've never spoken to her, and don't know her, how am I supposed to approach her desk and wish her a 'happy birthday', which custom dictates I must? It would immediately be apparent that I am putting on this false pretence of friendliness so that I may get what I want. There is no good will in my empty gesture of wishing her well, I am simply going through the motions of what is publicly expected to get what I desire. It's false, a flagrant lie obvious to everyone. A deceitful and underhand act so that I may benefit. Do not misunderstand me, I do not wish her any ill will, my feelings toward her are almost completely neutral, but I find the idea of faking this mild and casual pleasantness so that I may satisfy my own rabid greed utterly distasteful and insincere. The only way I could do this without soiling my own vague and confused personal morals would be if it was the first step towards a long and fulfilling friendship which would shine like a beacon throughout the rest of our lives. The shared holidays in Provence, the attendance of weddings and the laughter filled nights at the pub would all have blossomed from the seeds of fraternal friendship which were sown with those first few words of 'happy birthday'. But dear reader, I simply can't be fucked.
And so the cakes remain, forever beyond my reach due to my own philosophical cage. Until I ate some cakes when she went to the toilet.
