Every time it's lunch I seem to get phone calls. So Geoff in Dunstable has a technical question or wants to go over the brief for a project and I'm swallowing a huge semi-chewed lump of pastrami salad sandwich in a bid to answer his query.
It's always when I've got a really good butty, too. Usually a complicated one with several layers of salad, crumbly cheese, or the sort of salami that slides out whole from between the bread rather than allow itself to be bitten in two, requiring a sort of upward head-tilt and bite to catch the errant filling, followed by a guilty look around the office to see if anyone noticed.
Before we even get to the hygiene issues surrounding eating at your desk, I don't really mind about that. A few germs flicked at your immune system keeps it on it's toes. I worry more about getting mayonnaise on my tie than what's evolving inside my keyboard. I've always ate at my desk, back before everyone did it. I sometimes had curry and chips sitting on my digitiser tablet while I was playing PGA, pre-internet days. In these enlightened times, I normally plump for sandwich and fruit, possibly crisps and occasionally sushi. Whatever it is, though, is without fail interrupted by the phone. It can't be good for the digestion.
I'm going out for my lunch tomorrow.