I'm skint. No money until payday, which means no food during the day, save for what I can scavenge from "birthday snacks" around the office and what H has managed to smuggle out of her workplace for me.

I'd lick a stamp for the calorific content, right now.

So we have a fridge in on our floor, which the canteen keeps stocked with pints of milk. The energy in a pint of semi-skinnned could keep my brain alive for another hour and a half, meaning that someone gets their campaign done. So I figure, I'll have one. I like cold milk. It may take away the sensation of my stomach digesting itself and all my internal organs vanishing into a singularity of pain somewhere mid-spine.

So as I'm carrying my spoils back to the office, I get stopped by a person who asks me what I'm doing.

This milk is free. I could could happily use it all in thirty cups of coffee and this neo-Thatcher wouldn't even blink.

But drink a whole pint by myself? Why, that's just weird.

So I say "I'm making a frappacino in the office". I don't know what the fuck a frappacino is, I'm just guessing it uses a shitload of milk.

"Ooh great" trills the person, completely devoid of any humour. "I'll have one too" and follows me. What the fuck?

So, I get to my office and this person is looking around for a Frappucino maker like I'm a Starbucks barista. So I pop open the carton, take a huge swig, and swish it around in my mouth. Turning my head upwards (so as not to spill any), I manage to gargle "Want some?" through semi-skinned fatty bubbles of milk.

People are avoiding me now.