It's true that Kate in the Countryside ferrets around the outskirts of the fact that I have a job. I am not planning to break the habit and mention it now. But here is something that happens in the crux of working hours: lunch. More specifically, Pizza Hut.
In software, in which I make my career, it is impossible to discuss things unless they're turned acronym. We're businesspeople remember? We haven't got time to sit down and bloody spell things out. We have deals to be doing. Levels of Angry Birds to be achieving. Cups of coffee to be drinking.
So much you understand. For this reason, all of life must be slimmed down to as few characters as possible: Pizza Hut is PH. Benito's Hat (another old fave) is BH and Free Lunch Friday is FLF (I made that one up. We don't acronym Free Lunch. I don't know why not. Must check).
At about half eleven on your average day, the first hunger pangs will make themselves known in our office corner. We (the young folk) segregate ourselves onto a single table each day, largely for ease of lunchtime planning. It's a big decision, lunch.
Most days, our resident gourmet (known as Meesli) will look up, cast his eyes to the near distance, sniff the air for inspiration and muse, 'PH?'
I find this enthusiasm for the All You Can Eat Pizza Hut deal fairly confusing. I imagined that I had left it behind when I found myself, aged seven, diving out of the way of a vomiting chum on his record fifth bowl of Ice Cream Factory. Happy days. For the Grad Lads though, it's the highlight of the week.
So last Tuesday we found ourselves at the Piccadilly Circus branch of the esteemed chain. All six of us grad scheme youth were in attendance. Given how often the chaps frequent this place, it was disappointing to find that the PH waiting staff didn't reward commitment with preferment. Crushed in a corner, a sizeable distance from the buffet counter, our table glistened with semi-wiped offerings from the party that preceded us.
We sized up the - frustratingly sparse - buffet counter. Swiftly, the tallest and biggest of our number, Don, dived in. Knocking aside tables, chairs, small children and the occasional meatball, such was his enthusiasm, he sneaked in in front of a crowd of hungry Russian tourists.
Shepherding the rest of the team through the Volga brothers, Don seized a couple of pizza platters. As the crowd grew mutinous Meesli employed the vegetarian serving knife on a meaty pizza. Oblivious to the wrath of our Cold War cousins, I took the green-handled knife from Meesli to serve myself some veggie pizza, cross-fertilising the issue. The resulting fracas could have been heard in Beijing.
Keen not to seem the appetite wuss, I then snuck across to the salad bar to pad out my (frankly unambitious) plate, before returning to our grimy den. Alas, the mouldy salad collection was more noxious than the pizza. I unearthed two hairs, an egg and some extremely unusual-looking carrots.
And after that, all that remains is digestion. And a chocolate sundae. A perfect Tuesday.