Only a Mug

Only a Mug ‘Cup of tea?’ H’m, that’s not right. The feudal system dictates that I should very much be the one offering my boss a cup of tea, not the other way around. It is undoubtedly one of Morgana’s passive aggressive comments because I haven’t done a round at precisely the moment her already over-stimulated frontal lobe dips in caffeine levels. She can be such a â€" ‘Yes, actually. No sugar. Thank you.’ Morgana curled her lips into a satisfied smile and disappeared off into the kitchen. I was usually happy enough to do  the tea  round myself as part of my lowly duties. Being the junior freelancer on the team, the tea and coffee jars could barely differentiate me from the interns skittering about. I knew my place. I had made peace with my place. In fact I liked to think that I’d developed a certain talent as Beverage Officer during my two months on the account. I noted people’s predilections with interest. ‘Oh, hot water and lemon, today? Detoxing from last night? Chai Latte don’t get ahead of yourself.’ I took care to pick out the most appropriate mugs for my fellow colleagues to ensure a paramount drinking experience. ‘Cat mug for Laura, Sport’s Direct for Arnold, Cath Kidson for Morgana and Winnie the Pooh for me.’ It may not have been a huge responsibility but the undying optimist in me saw it as a chance to shine. After all, the sentence, ‘Whoever made this absolutely lip-smacking espresso must be promoted on the spot,’ was not entirely inconceivable. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when Morgana slopped a small, plain white mug in front of me, causing the hot liquid to spill onto my desk slightly as she did so. ‘Many thanks,’ I called after her. Best to keep up appearances but truly, thanks were not warranted. I inspected the mug further and found a chip in its side and a dusting of sugar around its rim. A sprinkling of pure antagonism. I suppose my order could have got mixed up with someone else’s? Or is this humble offering actually a thinly disguised declaration of war? I had not exactly been getting along with Morgana. She had the irritating habit of looking over my shoulder as I worked and coded each instruction with a ‘Could you?’ which, though seemingly neutral, had taken on a sarcastic quality through repetition. ‘Florence, there’s no paper in the printer.’ ‘Oh, OK. I’ll pop some more in.’ ‘Could you? Oh and I don’t have the media plan.’ ‘Right. I’ll send it to you now.’ ‘Could you?’ Yes! YES I COULD! I think Morgana liked this question as it gave the illusion she was being democratic and bending down to me as some sort of equal. This effect was somewhat nullified by the fact that she never required a response. In turn, the only question I could ask that wouldn’t produce a sigh was, ‘Tea or coffee?’ After a few obligatory sips of my saccharine poison I slid over to the kitchen to throw the insulting mixture out. As I hovered there, poised by the sink, I peered surreptitiously into the cupboard and all was confirmed. A glittering array of superior mugs tantalized the eyes. Surely this is no accident? Morgana had deliberately given me the dud mug. The inside of that cupboard was like looking into the inside of her soul, rows and rows of pure hatred.