A TERRIBLE crime has been committed. Yes, a terrible crime indeed. I’ve tried not to jump to conclusions, but I’m afraid there is simply no other explanation. My work mug has been stolen. Again.
This is the second time in as many weeks.
I know what you are thinking: how am I possibly getting through the day? With great difficulty, let me tell you.
The first crime occurred a few weeks ago when I went to make a coffee only to find my mug had mysteriously disappeared. This was most unlike my mug, which I fondly refer to as Marilyn, Marilyn the Mug, as she surely knows my coffee schedule like the back of her non-existent hand.
Marilyn and I have been together for years, ever since she was gifted to me by a nice lady whose name escapes me now. She sports the most attractive red, green, white and yellow swirls, something other mugs certainly could not pull off with such aplomb.
So when I went for my daily dose of caffeine only to discover Marilyn the Mug was AWOL, I had no option but to launch an office-wide search.
At first everyone claimed innocence, then, as tends to happen in times of strife, accusations of guilt were bandied about the office, different departments turned on each other.
Rumours began to circulate about who could possibly have stolen Marilyn. And I’m not afraid to say this in public: the advertising department firmly pointed the finger of guilt at accounts, who are well-known for their love of tea. With all fingers pointing towards the ladies in accounts, I had no option but to confront them directly.
They denied they had stolen Marilyn with ferocious conviction and so, channelling Inspector Poirot, I opted to back down from the situation but pledged to keep a close eye on the scoundrels.
Anyhoo, as it transpired, Marilyn turned up a few minutes later in the dishwasher, which, might I add, was sheer coincidence because I had already checked the dishwasher. Yes, yes, suspicious I know. Someone’s guilty conscience at play, perhaps? Who can tell?
Marilyn and I were joyously reunited and all was well. Until today, that is. This morning, after a short leave of absence so I could attend a wedding, I trotted into work, fashionably late of course, only to discover that Marilyn was not in her usual home.
No need to panic, I told myself, I’ll just look in the dishwasher to see if she is there. Lo and behold, Marilyn was not to be found.
“Sweet Lord!” I thought. “Another crime has been committed, once again involving Marilyn. Why must she be targeted so?”
I calmed myself somewhat and returned to my desk to check if Marilyn was there, but, of course, she was not. I was then forced to have a noticeably sub-standard coffee from a communal mug. Honestly, it threw me right off for the rest of the day.
Now I know what you are thinking: who cares about what mug you drink out of? Once I was like you – I never cared what mug I drank out of and I always thought people who were possessive about their mugs were freaks, to put it kindly. I blissfully went about my business thinking I was blasé about the mug situation. Until one day I spotted someone drinking from Marilyn.
An all-consuming rage overcame me. It took me by surprise.
I couldn’t concentrate on my work without seeing them drink from Marilyn from the corner of my eye. It became so irritating that it took all my power not to jump up and rip Marilyn from their hands. It was at that moment I realised that I, too, was a mug freak. I’m not saying I liked admitting it to myself; in fact, I acknowledge that it is really quite pathetic, but I’ve had to come to terms with it.
So with that in mind, I simply must find Marilyn in the coming hours, or I will be contacting the gardaí to demand they put their best personnel on the job immediately. Marilyn the Mug must be found, and I won’t rest until she is.
Update: I rechecked the dishwasher, just in case, and Marilyn is DEFINITELY not there.