To gain access to the garden (or 'designated smoking area'), you have to pass through the Canteen. Sort of like crossing the infernal River Styx where all horrors dwell. Once upon a time there were little kitchenettes scattered throughout the premises, now the entire company is served by one kitchen (I use the term loosely).
I normally wander through there lost in thought with my eyes on the ground, which is a mistake as this brings to my attention the long strands of hair usually plastered to the sticky floor. A clean teaspoon is a rare commodity indeed at the tea station.
Hygiene continues to be an alien concept to the kitchen staff, and even apparent leprosy is no barrier to a long and successful career in our catering department. To venture into the back room of the kitchen where the dinner ladies hang out snacking on leftovers near the big industrial sink is to risk life-long bulimia nervosa.
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