A beef with restricted lunchtimes.

 Lunch breaks used to be leisurely one-hour affairs, now, in the name of efficiency, many workplaces have trimmed it down to half an hour. This poses a dilemma – where to go and what to eat in such a short time.

 If you work in an office building or in the city, the half-hour lunch time usually goes something like this: sprint out the door at 1pm; walk briskly to the food court; wait to get served; search desperately for a seat while balancing a plate of stir-fried beef and rice; find a table and start making inroads on the rice mountain and beef tower. No matter how much you eat, the pile of rice will refuse to go down. Chew like a madman, to no avail. The rice mountain will expand and the beef tower will rise. Another five minutes of concentrated eating and the voice in your head starts: “You should be close to finishing by now.”

 “You have 10 minutes to eat that beef, don’t worry about the rice, then clear your plate and start making your way back to the office. Ten minutes. I very much doubt you’re going to make it.”

 Your supervisor’s office sits opposite the door so he/she can see people coming in. There is nowhere to hide if you are late. It doesn’t matter how long you take for lunch when you reach a certain level – but when you are in a subordinate position, every minute is noted.

 You check your watch again. Twenty-five minutes has elapsed – how can that be? You push most of the food to the side of your plate so it looks like you’ve eaten more – you don’t want the nice ladies behind the counter to think that you didn’t like it. You push past the tables, motor through the door, up the steps and down the street; cursing everyone for walking in slow motion. You cross against the lights and narrowly avoid being mowed down by a Mercedes sports car. The driver beeps his horn.

 You reach your building, throw yourself through the double doors and hurry to the lift, with two minutes to go. The stir-fried beef is repeating on you like an FM radio playlist but at least you are in the building. Trouble is, you are on the ground floor and you need to be on the 11^th. You are willing the number to light up. Come on, come on. You tell yourself that your watch is sometimes fast but you know for a fact that it is on time. The lift doors finally open. It is packed but you force your way in. This is a matter of life and death. It slowly creaks its way to the 11^th floor.

 You reach your floor, race out of the lift like an Olympian, swipe your card to open the door and collapse in front of your computer as the clock ticks over to 1.30pm. Your head is spinning, your heart is beating and your digestive system is protesting strenuously. It doesn’t matter.

 The great lunch race is over. You now have 24 hours to get your strength back, rest up, take some heartburn medication and do it all again tomorrow. Then again, you could just bring a sandwich.