Break time

There exisits a room the existence of which is only mentioned in hushed tones. A room full of fear and trepidation. The staff canteen.
In this room the inexplicible is mixed with the inedible. Staff go there in the hope that lunch is some wonderous delight. That hope buoyed by the smell that eminates from behind the doors. Your hopes raise, your guard drops, then you see the offerings underneath the heat lamps. The sense of loss is immense, even if what you lost never existed in the first place.
You try it anyway, in the hope that it tastes better than it looks. Yet again your hopes are dashed.
You deside to wash the taste away with a hot drink, so you tempt the vending machine, hoping the cups have been refilled the right way up.
Pass this first hurdle and you are faced with the hot drink version of russian roulete. Once you find a drink you try it out. If youre lucky it will be at a drinkable temprature. Otherwise its hotter than a certain apple pie.
Of course if this does happen to you there is always hope that the radio will bust into life and you have to rush off somewhere, and upon your return suddenly and mysteriously loosing your appitite. But for some reason that seems rarer than a decent meal.