Meg

It is just past noon. N. is eating and Meg after desperately moaning for the food is nervously pacing the office up and down, getting out into the corridor and then quickly comes back: she is on the threshold of her patience. Nothing but water is her lot for now. Mr C. and T. have just arrived with two fried fish plus some creamy salad for lunch. I first imagined Meg would go mad in the presence and smell of all these. But instead, after a fruitless waiting beside their desks, she turns to me and moans quietly. It seems that this poor blue cheese with pita bread which I am having today suits her better than the smelly fried fish. She then lies down on the floor. This is Meg everyday story, looking forward for the food with a renewed excitement every single day. I hate her attitude and I suppose that's why am not far off from her; only perhaps the abundant of things gives a false sense of being secured. Enough of Meg now.