Glenn Dwight reckons a shared morning tea is the potluck dinner of the office. Photo / Pexels, Jakub Zerdzicki
For those of us who have worked in an office, or still do, you’ll know all about the shared office space.
It’s a unique environment.
A place where you can hear one side of a phone call that somehow goes on for 40 minutes, packed with phrases like “just circling back”, “let’s take that offline” and “we’ll touch base” while someone nearby is typing in a way that suggests they’re working through something deeper than Derek’s email.
There’s always a conversation happening just a little too loudly, just a little too close, and just when you think it might wrap up, it somehow finds a second wind.
Then there’s the kitchen.
The microwave looks like the opening scene of CSI Miami – and not in a good way.
Someone has heated fish at some point, recently enough that it still lingers, and the sink contains a collection of dishes that look like they’ve been part of a scientific breakthrough, possibly the accidental rediscovery of penicillin.
Every now and then, a note appears. Not aggressive, but not not-aggressive either. “Do I look like your mum?” followed by a gentle reminder to do your own dishes.
And then you have the space invaders. Not the old 8-bit kind, but the ones who quietly start treating the office like it’s their own.
It begins with a creeping expansion of territory. A notebook appears on your desk that isn’t yours. Then a coffee cup. Then somehow the “shared” space becomes “their” space.
Before long, even the office shower that was installed to encourage cycling to work has been claimed – not for its intended purpose, but as a personal drying rack.
And while cycling to work might be a great idea in theory, the sight of damp Lycra hanging up in a shared space is very confronting and probably deserves an article of its own.
But while some workers are expanding their footprint, office social budgets are heading in the opposite direction.
As phrases like “cost efficiencies” and “streamlining” start appearing in emails, entertainment budgets are being trimmed quicker than the lawn before your in-laws arrive.
Gone are the catered lunches and the occasional Friday drinks. In their place, something far more Kiwi has stepped up.
The shared morning tea.
Now, you might think this is where I start complaining. But actually, it’s completely the opposite.
I love a shared morning tea. It’s the potluck dinner of the office, combining the luck of a Saturday night Lotto draw with the culinary excess of a smorgasbord.
And unlike the potluck dinner, which probably reached its peak sometime in the 70s alongside flares and the occasional bowl of keys, the shared morning tea is something special.
And the thing I love most about a shared morning tea is the people watching.
You learn a lot about your fellow workers in a very short space of time, through what they bring and how they approach it.
Take Dave, for example.
Dave’s brought a packet of on-special biscuits (or possibly a leftover wafer biscuit from a Sampler Box), because he believes his real contribution isn’t the food, but his “food for thought”.
And like a Newstalk ZB phone line after a politician’s ex has posted something on social media, he has an opinion on everything.
Politics, sport, interest rates, weather patterns over the lower North Island since 1987 and, at some point, a very detailed take on paddleboarding conditions that nobody asked for but everyone is now part of.
All of this is delivered while you’re trying to decide whether the slice in front of you has coconut in it or not.
Then there’s Sarah.
Sarah hasn’t just brought something along; she’s brought something that has required planning, preparation and possibly getting up at 3am to ice.
This isn’t just home baking; this is a show. It shows that Sarah doesn’t just watch My Kitchen Rules, she sends constructive feedback to the contestants like it’s an anonymous office engagement survey (we know it was you, Sarah).
She’ll downplay it, of course: “Oh, it’s just something I threw together.” Which is another lie, Sarah.
And while everyone is politely praising it, Sarah is quietly watching to see who goes back for seconds.
Then there’s Mark.
Mark forgot. Not in a careless way, more in an “I didn’t read that email” kind of way.
So he’s arrived with something from the vending machine.
A chocolate bar, a packet of chips, maybe one of those muesli bars that nobody ever chooses.
He places the treat on the table with a confidence that suggests this was always the plan.
It says he has both disposable income and very little concern for office emails.
Then there’s Karen.
Karen has stopped at the bakery. Not just any bakery, the kind that puts things in boxes and places a sticker on the seam.
Inside is a perfectly arranged selection of sausage rolls, lamingtons and club sandwiches.
Like Karen, it’s a professional effort.
No risk, no surprises, just solid, dependable morning tea.
And then there’s Jason.
Jason has brought something that looks like a montage of leftovers.
Now don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a collection of Monday nachos, Tuesday nachos, Wednesday nachos, Thursday nachos.
This is more of a tasting platter from Jason’s very structured and well-planned food week.
This is Jason’s way of saying my home life is as organised as my computer desktop, which, for the record, has one neatly labelled folder.
You see, for me, that’s the fun part of a shared morning tea.
Lifting the lid on the metaphorical mini pie and seeing what’s inside. Getting a glimpse of who we are and what we’re really like.
Which got me thinking.
If a shared morning tea says that much about us, what would it look like if our politicians were asked to bring a plate?
What would they bring to the country’s table?
Christopher Luxon, to me, feels like a man who would dig into his past and turn up with a bowl of Air New Zealand lollies.
And let’s be honest, in these slightly turbulent times, that might be exactly what we need.
Because those lollies aren’t just there for the taste. They’re there to help with pressure.
The answer for Chris Hipkins is obvious.
Sausage rolls – the undisputed backbone of any morning tea. And if you think about it, like Chris, they’re non-offensive and a party pleaser.
But the question is, are they a morning tea winner?
David Seymour would bring something controversial to the table.
Something that will divide people.
The perfect example is the feijoa.
Some people will love his feijoa crumble, others will think he’s the devil for even bringing it into the building.
I know you might think this is cliché, but I imagine Chlöe Swarbrick would bring a quiche filled with ingredients you’ve never quite heard of and aren’t entirely sure how to pronounce.
Obviously, it would be vegan – and some would say it’s flaky and lacks meat, while others would absolutely eat it up.
And that brings me to Winston.
Part of me hopes he’d bring a packet of darts and just drop them on the table with a Winston smile.
But I’ll put him down for club sandwiches.
Those slightly awkward little treats that are hard to define, where they start and where they end, so finding the middle is impossible.
And just like that, you’ve got a multi-party party.
So if you get an office memo saying the entertainment budget has been cut and that Leslie’s birthday celebrations have been downgraded from a lunch at a restaurant that sounds like it might be French to a shared morning tea in the staff room, don’t feel like you’re missing out.
Look at it as a chance to learn a bit more about that new person in the office and see what they bring to the table.