Chris Maclean: Storm in a pen-top

There is war between me and the restaurant. The relationship is breaking down and a tension exists. Beyond a cursory "good morning" communication is perfunctory. If there was a business equivalent of Relate then maybe we ought to be there. It is all about the failure to communicate.

Well to be more exact it is about pens. Stupid little biros.

Since the restaurant was opened I have provided pens, pads and diaries for them to use. But there is some bizarre black hole that seems to devour the pens. I've given the restaurant red pens, Spitfire pens and, most recently, a heap of white pens. But they have all gone.

The upsetting part for me is that once they have lost all their pens they turn to my dependable supply and raid that. Now I'm the one scratching around for pens and, when I look in the restaurant, lo and behold there are dozens of my cheap crystal pens by the diary.

As I write this I realise the pathetic pettiness of it. But I am reminded of a polar explorer who gave a lecture many years ago. He said he was snowed inside his tent for several days. His mate in the tent insisted on buttering his biscuits on both sides. This was so frustrating to the explorer that he contemplated killing his mate. A totally irrational and ridiculous response to a trivial act.

I am trying to be big about it. They are only pens. But this morning they had my calculator and stapler in there. Have they no consideration? How heartless can they be?

Last week, in a fit of pique, I locked up the cleaning cupboard so they would have to ask me nicely if they needed a broom or some ice.

How pathetic and stupid have I become?

It is four weeks to Christmas and I can think of one idiot who really doesn't deserve a present.

I think I better get communicating if I am going to stop it escalating.