The Tea Conundrum

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an anxious newcomer in possession of a new job will, before nine a.m., commit at least three acts of public humiliation.

Jamie, somewhat restored by sleep, two paracetamol, and Raj’s catastrophic attempt at toast (the fire alarm only went off once), arrived in front of the tall glass tower labeled “Dexter & Mendel.” Their reflection in the automatic door was comforting only in that it did not seem to show jam stains.

Step One, Jamie thought. Survive the foyer. Traversing said foyer required the bravery to approach the desk, locate ‘Security Frank’ (who seemed to be napping behind a fortress of lanyards), and offer up their name. Security Frank peered over the monitor, scowled at Jamie’s chest (finding no visible ID badge), and asked, “Are you deliveroo?” Frank was not to be hurried, so eventually Jamie was badged, stickered, and shunted into the lift, unsure if time had passed or if Frank simply existed outside the normal boundaries of space.

The doors pinged open on the sixth floor. Jamie emerged as if docking on an alien planet. Before them: a herd of desks. Plants sprouting from recycled gin bottles. Suspiciously motivational posters. An aura of caffeinated intensity.

Megan O’Neill was the first to greet Jamie. She appeared from behind a monitor, wielding a biro like a cutlass. “Jamie Turner? You must be. The new admin with the hopeless CV.”

Jamie smiled, attempting banter. “Depends. If you’re my line manager, yes. If you’re HR, I absolutely deny everything.”

Megan’s eyes sparkled—amicable, mischief glinting. “You’ll do well. Now, come meet everyone before the vultures descend.”

The grand tour was brisk, like being introduced to a zoo: Accounts (frowning, calculators held tight as shields), Marketing (all pastel jumpers and aggressive friendliness), IT (neckbeards, hoodies), and Miranda, the boss, bobbed past clutching a stack of folders as if considering murder. “You’re the newbie?” Miranda barked. “Pray for your soul.”

Tea. That was the first test.

“I’ll make the teas!” Jamie announced. Megan immediately grinned with the delight of one who could sense entertainment approaching. “Oh, would you?”

“Sure!” Jamie’s internal organs contracted. “How hard can it—”

A sudden gale of requests hit:

• “Earl Grey with oat milk and honey—mug, not cup.”
• “Yorkshire, three sugars, dash of milk, but only after it steeps.”
• “Green tea bag dunked, not brewed.”
• “No caffeine, if possible. Oh, don’t use the blue mug, it’s cursed.”
• “Builders’ tea, black as sin.”

Jamie, arms already full, grabbed a tray and tried to map each request to a mug. Someone shouted, “NOT THAT SPOON!” Why? No time for questions. The little kitchen resembled an airport during a snow delay: bodies packed in, queue amassing, everyone pretending to mind their own but glaring over their phones.

Jamie, in a fever of determination, poured water, tea, and milk into vaguely correct vessels. Something fizzed—a herbal bag dissolved into an alarming shade of mauve. A sugar packet exploded. The oat milk protested, forming lumps reminiscent of childhood illness. Still, Jamie powered through, delivering the first cup with a trembling hand to Miranda.

Miranda sipped. Blinked. “What…is this?” she managed.

“Authentic Midlands fusion,” Jamie babbled. “Sweet, with a hint of…intent.”

Silence.

Megan took her own cup, sniffed, and burst out laughing. “It’s not that bad, Mir. I once brewed chamomile in chicken stock.”

The rest of the office sipped, winced, or in the case of Andy from IT, quietly tipped his mug into a complimentary pot plant (the ficus was seen later growing at an alarming rate).

Disaster, then. But the day would have been incomplete without a second catastrophe.

At lunch, Jamie tried to decode the art of office small talk. “So,” Jamie said, trying for nonchalance, “does everyone really work through lunch, or do you just pretend and secretly scroll BuzzFeed like normal people?”

A smattering of laughs. Megan fired back: “Depends who’s about. If Miranda’s near, you’re organising the next Olympics.”

Jamie jumped in, wishing to belong: “She seems terrifying but, you know, in a cute, avenging-witch way. Is ‘boss with resting murder face’ the London look?”

It was at this moment that Miranda glided past behind them, expression glacial, holding a file marked ‘Performance Reviews.’

Megan’s mouth formed a perfect O. Andy coughed into his sleeve. Jamie froze, brain alight with possible escape routes, all of them involving sudden exile.

Miranda stopped, regarded Jamie. “Thank you,” she intoned, voice deadpan. “That’s the kindest description I’ve had all quarter. Welcome aboard, Turner.”

Megan leaned in with the salute only survivors of embarrassment can muster: “Congratulations. You’re properly initiated. If you’re still alive at five, we go to the Crown for damage control.”

Crown. Pub. Jamie wondered if this was the first step toward real friendship, or the modern equivalent of being left in a forest to see if you’d survive.

Five o’clock, then. Megan reappeared, coat on, tissues in hand. “Let’s see if you can manage a pint better than a cuppa, Jamie. Famous last words.”

They strode off toward the pub, office in tow. Megan briefed Jamie on the politics of ordering a round (“Just don’t make it a spritz. Ever. Not even in summer. And never refer to crisps as ‘chips’ unless you fancy being deported.”), while Andy nursed a slightly burnt tongue.

By the time Jamie sipped their first (warm) pint and listened to stories of the last admin who tried to ‘improve’ the tea rota (he was never seen again, apparently), it didn’t matter if the invitation was out of pity or genuine office kinship.

The ceiling of the Crown was sticky with laughter and half-muttered jokes. Megan clapped Jamie on the back: “You’re in. Hopefully not in A&E next week, but who can say.”

Jamie, so far from the Midlands, realized as the city’s pulse hummed outside the window: surviving the day’s disasters was almost more impressive than getting everything right. And possibly, just possibly, the right kind of disaster made you part of the club.