People are often of the opinion that civil servants are boring, but I think this is a little unfair.  Working in our little call centre, there is often excitement, mystery, intrigue and drama.  So much so, in fact, that it may surprise the average viewer of Coronation Street, say, that what goes on on those famous cobbles could be said to be a little lacking in substance, and not just because of Sally Webster’s horrendous acting.

There were 217 calls in the queue just after lunch, and when I had finished filing my fingernails down to a soft, rounded shape to allow aerodynamic use of my keyboard, I was on the verge of taking my 2nd call of the day when Dead Fred shouted “We’ve run out of tea bags!”

You will never have heard such a piercing, unsettling, panicked silence.

Hairy Barbara looked like she had lost all her loved ones in a horrendous accident with a drug-crazed, pitchfork wielding psychotic person, Dead Victor put his head in his hands in a gesture of disbelief, and Slightly Yellow Steve actually mumbled “I never thought this day would come.”

The number of calls waiting hit 300, yet no one could move a muscle.  At this point, we decided to make use of the teambuilding exercise that we had attended only the week before, and set about achieving the procurement of some teabags with a vigour and sense of purpose I’m sure must have been present at Dunkirk.

Slightly Yellow Steve girded his loins and set about checking the drawers of the unoccupied desks in case a suspicious, selfish soul had squirreled away a few for a rainy day, Little John started crawling about on the floor under the desks, desperately hoping to find a stray bag or two that might have fell down and remained un-retrieved during the happier times when there was a surfeit of our lifeblood, and myself and Mouldy Sam went on a tour of the other floors of the building prepared to sell our souls – and a new box of pencils that Little John had discovered under someone’s desk – for a cuppa or two.

Hairy Barbara started washing and drying all the cups so that if we struck gold we would be able to enjoy a delicious, life-giving drink from some spotless china (well, my cup is an 8 year old “Aero” mug, but you get the picture) and Dead Victor filled the kettle ready for that diamond moment – when we would once again be refreshed.

It reached 4pm and the enthusiasm and gusto that had bounced around the office some 2 hours earlier was swiftly turning to despondency.  Jammy Eric took his tie off in a gesture of defeat, and Dilatory Karen dabbed a tissue to moistened eyes.

Prepared to give up after facing down a monster bigger than ourselves, we were at last – at last! – granted salvation when office cleaner Nimble Ethel came running – yes, running! – through the door clutching what can only be described as a gift from the Gods.  Yes!  A brand new, unopened, virgin pack of 80 Yorkshire teabags!

There was dancing, music, joy, mirth and merriment across the office, and someone even found a party popper left over from the Christmas party which they set off with aplomb. 

The highlight of the moment was when Big John, who hasn’t heaved himself from his chair since Christmas Eve 1989, leapt up and punched both fists in the air.

Our tea was swiftly delivered, and the office sang once more with the happy clink of spoons against ceramic and the laughter that ensues when a hard task is over.

I washed down the dregs and thought about taking a call.  My finger was hovering over the “Ready” button when suddenly I realised I had worked 2 minutes overtime!  I put on my coat and set off for home, safe in the knowledge that together we had done a bloody good days work.