I Give a Fork!

There are many things that quietly determine whether an office runs smoothly. Strategy. Leadership. Culture. Shared purpose.... and Forks. Specifically, the complete and utter absence of them.

In one of my previous workplaces, we had enough forks. Life was stable. Lunches were eaten with dignity. Then the pandemic arrived and our once fully stocked kitchen transformed into what can only be described as a Year 9 camp facility. All communal cutlery and crockery vanished overnight. In its place sat a microwave, a fridge, and individually wrapped sugar sachets that no one fully trusted.

It became a BYOKI environment. Bring Your Own Kitchen Items.

The logic made sense. Hygiene. Shared surfaces. Reduced risk. I agreed with the decision entirely.

I just never remembered my fork.

The microwave would beep triumphantly as my Lite n’ Easy lasagna completed its spin cycle. I would approach with optimism, open the drawer out of habit, and be met with nothing but chopsticks in their individual paper sleeves. Chopsticks!

I admire people who can use chopsticks. They display coordination, grace, and a calm confidence I do not possess. My relationship with chopsticks is one of mutual disappointment. Rice, chicken, noodles - basically any asian food item that others seem to eat with ease with chopsticks evades me - Lasagna! No chance!.

Wooden spoons became the emergency solution. Eating lasagna with a flat wooden spoon feels like being gently punished for your own forgetfulness. That will teach you to remember your fork next time.

After the third incident of standing in the kitchen whispering “fork me” to myself, I took decisive action. A visit to the local IGA resulted in a modest four-pack of plastic cutlery. Knife, spoon, fork. A complete set, if one can call a plastic knife a knife.

The fork was the crown jewel.

It lived in the bottom drawer of my desk. A contingency plan. A silent promise to myself that I would never again be defeated by a lasagna, or any meal at that which required a fork.

Then one afternoon, while waiting patiently for my meal to rotate, a colleague in front of me removed last night’s leftover curry from the microwave. The aroma was magnificent. The realisation that followed was less so.

“Oh fork me, I forgot my fork.”

A moment of destiny.

Never fear, I said calmly. I have a spare.

Back to my desk I marched, retrieved a plastic fork, and delivered it with the quiet confidence of someone who suddenly understood their power. The gratitude was immediate and wildly disproportionate to the object’s retail value.

Word travelled quickly.

People began appearing at my desk in low tones. “Do you… have any forks left?” they would murmur, glancing around as though the request itself was illicit and HR might materialise from behind a pot plant (I note I am HR!).

My four-pack dwindled. Demand exceeded supply. A strategic restock was required. Twenty plastic forks entered circulation.

This was the moment I realised I had crossed a line. I was no longer someone who occasionally supported the odd fork forgetter - I was, nay had become, a fork dealer.

The forks lived in the bottom of my work filing drawer, hidden beneath paperwork like some kind of suburban underworld stash. Requests were handled discreetly. “Come with me,” I would say, opening the drawer slowly. “I can sort you out.”

There were regulars. There were first-timers who swore it would never happen again. There were those who promised to bring one back and never did. I distributed generously, asking for nothing in return except the knowledge that someone could now eat their lasagna with dignity.

The empire was short-lived. Communal cutlery eventually returned. The drawer was once again filled with proper metal forks. My services were no longer required. This fork dealer retired quietly.

Fast forward to a more recent workplace and the crisis resurfaced. The drawer would be opened at lunchtime and reveal nothing. Not one fork. The dishwasher teased us with the possibility of abundance, yet by midday the supply had vanished.

A colleague and I stood over the empty drawer and looked at each other.

“What the fork?”

Who steals mediocre office forks?

No one is building a retirement fund on second-hand stainless steel. Yet forks disappear with remarkable consistency. They migrate home in lunch containers and quietly assimilate into domestic drawers, never to be seen again.

Perhaps there is a broader fork syndicate operating across offices everywhere. Perhaps I merely tapped into an existing market. Should this retiree resurface?

What remains true is this. Forks are the first item you want and the hardest item to keep.

They stab, they scoop, they twirl. They are small, unassuming, and absolutely essential.

Civilisation may be built on strategy and culture, but lunchtime runs on four little prongs and if you don't have a fork, well you better hope someone gives a fork!