He Who Brings The Coffee is tapping repeatedly on the calculator.
“Broken,” he announces fatalistically.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap! Thump! Bang!
Zed and I glance at him in mild annoyance as we look up from our paperwork in time to see him lose his temper with the unfortunate calculator and throw it across the floor. “Put it in the bin,” he grunts in disgust, getting up and stomping off in search of another calculator. Zed retrieves the “broken” one from the floor and quietly presses the “ON” button. We continue with our paperwork.
He Who Brings The Coffee stares at Zed, upon returning to the desk to find her punching numbers into the broken calculator. “Here!” he exclaims, irritated. “Give me that!” He snatches it back, and we hide our smiles at his incredulity. “Did you press “ON”?” I enquire innocently. He glares at me. “Repeatedly! Did you not see me?” He retreats to his chair with the calculator.
The calculator sails through the air again, and we look up in surprise as it lands at our feet once more. “Broken! Put it in the bin! Put it in the bin!” growls He Who Brings The Coffee.
“It’s just solar powered,” says Zed, calmly. “You’re in a dark corner over there.”
“Well that’s absolutely no use to anybody! Put it in the bin.” glowers He Who Brings The Coffee.
“OK, why don’t you use the battery one, and we’ll use this one at the desk, under this light?” I suggest, trying to be practical.
“Put it in the bin!” repeats He Who Brings The Coffee, raising his voice.
Zed and I look at each other. We put it in the bin. He Who Brings The Coffee goes off, no doubt in search of more things to throw. “Don’t even think about it!” he calls over his shoulder.
Zed freezes, her hand only halfway to the bin.