Those of you privileged enough to have grown up with a school dinner lady, may recall suppers doled out with all the gusto of a bored prison guard. I missed out on that experience however, I did witness the vagaries of the office tea lady. Given these experiences I must own up to a moment of trepidation when I stumbled across the latest technological advancement in this area.
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Tea ladies first appeared in British factories, hospitals and offices during World War II. As the years passed by their pleasant demeanours and sweet smiles evaporated. Taking their place was an air of authority as they became guardians of morning tea hierarchy.
Come 10am offices across the world reverberated with rattling tea trollies. A sound that heralded the imminent arrival of a Scotch Finger or Iced Volvo, if you were lucky.
The chosen ones would be handed their drink with a knowing smile and a sideways nod to the Tim Tam, or other chocolate morsel, resting on a separate plate on top of a delicate serviette. Should the recipient be on the phone or deep in thought, the offering would be discretely placed on the corner of their desk, before the deliverer backed out of the office. Please note the word “office”, for most on the receiving end of this elevated treatment resided within an office, their delicate sensibilities not fit for the cesspit of the open plan congregation.
Those at the other end of the tea trolley dichotomy, those who may have offended a tea lady or one of their chosen ones in the past, would have their sustenance plonked down on the desk without comment or nod. There’d be no side plate, just a cup of tea or coffee with a plain biscuit cowering lemming-like half on, half off, the saucer.
If it was a particularly bad day the plonking action would be done with just enough movement to create an overflow that’d render the biscuit soggy. There was much skill to this slight-of-hand. Too much liquid and it would be too obvious, not enough and it would not have the desired effect. There had to be just the right amount of spillage so that the unsuspecting recipient would think the cup still full, thereby delaying the heartrending realisation of the soggy mess languishing on the saucer, until after the cup was lifted. The aim was to maximise the horror, by minimizing the recipients’ comprehension of the structural transformation. Picking up one edge of the biscuit and raising it to their mouth, the skulduggery would only be realised when the morsels compromised structure came adrift at the point of no retrieval. Done correctly this was usually directly over a white shirt or blouse.
For some this experience was repeated at 3pm for fear that workers might fade away through deprivation of sustenance. I say “sustenance”, but this hides another deception. A cup of drowned International Roast coffee crystals stewed for hours in a stained urn, and a plain biscuit held together by sugar crystals to hide its lack of taste, would send todays Heart Foundation tick straight to rehab.
Perhaps I’m being a little harsh. It must be said that not all experiences were this bad. The outcome was a complicated function of which tea lady was rostered on, how they’d been treated in the past and whether they were having a good day. Adding a further layer of complexity was whether the office temp had raided the biscuit jar, not grasping the motivational significance of a well time chocolate chip biscuit.
Regardless of your position in the tea lady pyramid it was a sad day for anyone in the office when their demise was announced.
It was these thoughts that came flooding back to mind when I witnessed the modern-day equivalent of the tea lady.
Having visited a friend in hospital I was on my way out when I ran into Peaches. No higher than my waist and carrying a full load of evening meals, she looked every bit the Everest Sherpa, but with the aura of a three-yea- old clambering onto a set of monkey-bars for the first time. A merry continuous beep announced her imminent arrival. You couldn’t meet a happier employee.
Further on down the corridor I ran into Ginger who, having delivered her load was heading back to her point of origin. Trouble was someone had left a wheelchair in the hallway. I watched on as she took one step to the left and back again. You could almost hear a weary sigh. If she’d taken two steps left, she’d have cleared the obstruction and been on her way, but that didn’t seem to register. Consequently, she appeared trapped, doomed to perform a one-sided square dance for all eternity. I was surprised that she didn’t let out a warning beep for assistance. Instead the path was eventually cleared when a human figure came to remove the impasse.
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Intrigued I followed Ginger until she reached the lift area. There she commenced a jittery pirouette until midway through she came to a complete standstill. She was looking directly at me. Wearing a pair of Dame Edna glasses, she did not look impressed to see me. With no action taking place it seemed I was the problem.
“Sorry Ginger,” I heard myself say out loud as I stepped to one side.
Unpleasant obstruction removed Ginger completed her turn and shunted forward until her nose was almost pressed against the lift doors.
“Calling lift,” acknowledged the lift as Ginger waited patiently for the doors to open, followed by “doors opening, step aside.”
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As I watched this modern-day marvel trundle over the threshold and disappear it was clear to me that while technology can make amazing breakthroughs that enhance our lives, it has yet to master the inevitability that comes with undertaking repetitive tasks. Even automated tea ladies becoming embittered over time, or so it would seem.
Footnote: In case you’re concerned about the gender stereotyping of tea ladies, I read a notice in the lift introducing the male version, Basil. Sadly I’ve yet to see him materialize.
END
This piece first appeared in Swan Magazine.
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