Let us eat cake (in the office)

Because who is Karen without a Colin The Caterpillar?

The first office I ever worked in had a cake trolley. At 5pm on Thursdays came the jangle of saucers clanging against a tray of Madeira sponge slices. Occasionally there was marble cake. And on a particularly good week, chocolate chip cookies.

I wasn’t only fond of this weekly ritual because it saved me a trip to the newsagent round the corner to buy a miserable energy ball (healthier, apparently). For the young women in the office, it served a far more important purpose.

As an intern earning a grand total of £50 a day, my interactions with the senior editors were minimal. In fact, this was true for pretty much most of my interactions in the office, particularly in the first few months. I was, to most of my colleagues, the smiling idiot who wears shoes she can’t walk in and is permanently fixed to the photocopier. The other interns were nice, but not interested in my small talk.

Most were Oxbridge grads, and had a family friend who played tennis with an editor. Meanwhile I got lucky: an alumni student had got in touch with my university, begging for a graduate who was ‘vaguely interested in fashion’ and could start straight away. Luckily none of my other job applications had been successful – so I was free as a bird. For whatever reason, I didn’t feel like I fit in. Except for on Thursdays, at 5pm.

I’d shiftily eye up the selection, waiting for the first few people to pounce. The first was always a male fact-checker, who would take two slices at a time (without a napkin) and eat them while hovering a few steps from my desk, seemingly proud of the sponge debris spilling on to his chest. Then, after about 15 minutes or so, came the girls. A couple of the picture researchers, a junior writer and, eventually, the interns. When the gaggle arrived, I’d saunter over and make some inane comment about ‘being naughty’ and, within a few minutes, I’d made a friend. Or, at least a person who knew I existed – and wasn’t annoyed about it.

On a few occasions, I got talking to a couple of the editorial assistants. And our weekly rendezvous over hobnobs turned into a fortnightly pub lunch and the feeling that this job might not be so painful after all. One Thursday, I got talking to a junior book editor. By my second month, I was brave enough to ask if she needed any new reviewers, while handing her a second slice of marble cake. A month later, I had my first byline in a broadsheet newspaper: a 200 word book review of some chick lit trash I can’t remember the name of. But still.

My point is: office snacks are not just office snacks. They create a community. Women, in particular, bond over food – and especially cake. Perhaps there is something in our shared shame, dare we reach for something with sugar in it. We assure each other we’ll get to the gym later, and we only had an egg pot for lunch. Suddenly we’re in the same field, eating the same cake, talking about crap. The cake trolley ultimately became my sanctuary. It gave me a place for connection, a distraction from my overwhelming sense of unworthiness and, most importantly, friends. Female friends.

I couldn’t help but think of this last week, when I heard that Professor Susan Jebb – Chair of the Food Standards Agency and former Govt advisor on healthy eating – had likened office cake to passive smoking. Apparently, people who dare to buy their colleagues a Colin The Caterpillar are just as threatening to public health as smokers who puff in your face. The underlying message of such a statement is one that I have rallied against since I became a health journalist: food is only relevant to our physical selves. And the benefits are limited to what it does – or doesn’t do – for our body. Anyone who has ever had a friend deliver ice cream after a break up, brought a crowd-pleaser to a barbecue or boldly ordered oysters on a date knows that the purpose of food is so much more than its nutritional content.

And literally no one cares about Colin’s calorific excess when it’s 5pm on a Friday and all the girls have gathered round to hear about the time Sally from accounts renovated her kitchen entire on a budget of £300. Or, you’re all pondering the potential uses the £200 sex cushion for sale on Selfridges’ website (this may just be my office).

On a more serious note, comments like Jebb’s are particularly irritating given that they show complete misunderstanding of the problem she’s looking to fix. Britain does have a problem with obesity. Around a quarter of all adults in England are obese: at greater risk of heart disease, type 2 diabetes, lung conditions and a range of cancers. But the explanation for this situation does not lie with the empty tubs of M&S tiffin stranded on our respective desks.

I had a little look at the research. It would seem that the workers with the highest risk of obesity are truck drivers, police men and women, healthcare workers and cleaners. One 2014 US study found that those least likely to be obese were estate agents who, as far as I’m aware, mostly work in…an office?

Studies have consistently shown that the biggest risk factor for obesity – and its related illnesses – is social deprivation. Genetics are also a main driver. In short, some people have DNA that makes food more irresistible.  Pair this with a bank balance that means you can only afford to eat moreish fast food – and perhaps a job that doesn’t allow for exercise – and you’re in trouble. Colin or no Colin.

Also, most people who work in offices have a pretty mediocre day-to-day life. Not much happens. Maybe you rediscover a particularly snazzy pen, or see the guy from HR with the nice bum. A slice of cake is the least we deserve.

So just let us eat it – ok?