Lunchtime is fraught with perils. Here's one.

Where are my chopsticks?

Or “you had one job, Pret.”

I pick out some sushi, and queue with the masses,

I bear unsolicited thoughts on my glasses,

from the cashier (a man with no obvious talent

for seducing the ladies – a bungling gallant),

to the office I wend, bereft of a fiver

but focused on what will absorb my saliva.

But where are my chopsticks? I’m implement-less!

How can I consume my lunch with finesse?

So I track down a fork, eat my sushi old-school

with a culturally irregular, frumpier tool.