the breakfast club, cafeteria, lunch, desk lunch, eating habits, diet

What your desk lunch says about you


Bread has become such an evil drug for you now that a sandwich is almost like a little hit of MDMA, right there at your desk. Crystal Waters’ 1991 hit Gypsy Woman (She’s Homeless) starts playing in your head.  That summer of Fila trainers and over-plucked eyebrows. You’re almost consumed by your recklessness. Just as the bloating kicks in and the comedown commences. It was good while it lasted.


Nothing else. Just crisps. You savour each one. The salt. The vinegar. The way they cover your fingers and leave you with a residual treat. Then you get to the bottom and become desperate. You tear the packet open. You ram your fingers into all the corners to make sure you clean up any residual salt molecules. And then it’s over. And you are completely bereft, your mouth still watering. This is the most mindful experience you will have all day. You were so present with those crisps.

A shop-bought salad

God, you hate this damn salad. It turns out it’s got pasta in it and it’s cold and everything looks flat and wan. Like your soul.

A deli salad

Look at you and your cardboard box filled with organic plant-based superiority. Everything is covered in herbs and some kind of outrageous Tuscan olive oil that is practically wine. There are grains sprouting left, right and centre, glimmering aubergines, muscular broccoli tenderstems. If only you weren’t semi-choking on how INCREDIBLY expensive it was. You’ve had facials that cost less.


Something is going on. Talk it out. Today, chocolate. Tomorrow, tequila.


You had sushi for lunch! You are virtuous! And classy. Which means you now have credit to have Crunchy Nut and cider for dinner. Actually, hold the Crunchy Nut.

An apple

It’s not an apple. It’s a cry for help.

Something you brought from home

You are the person your friends will run to when the apocalypse happens. Prepared, reliable and financially responsible. You’ve probably already got a fully stocked bunker on standby, like the Scientologists.


You might as well be wearing a sandwich board that says, ‘I had a one night stand last night and I’m hungover as an absolute bastard. For your own safety, please avoid me. My breath, alone, could kill you.”

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