**How many pastries is one too many?

I am sitting in a huge glass-and-metal foyer outside the office of a very important man. There are plasma screens everywhere and busy people rushing around, shaking their heads, studying pieces of paper. I sit quietly with a cup of tea and a croissant.
“This is very different from my office,” I think, to myself. “In my office there is just me and some unopened mail.”
I bite into my croissant and notice a homeless man outside. He is shuffling around, looking at his feet, and glances inside. I stop chewing. It feels rude.
“Danny?”
I look up. It is the important man’s assistant, who has come to collect me.
“Imagine having an assistant!” I think, as we walk through the building together. “You’d be able to get all sorts of assistance with things. You could say, ‘Quick! I need some assistance!’ and be guaranteed to receive it. I bet they never have any unopened mail lying around the place.”
In every office we pass, there are more important people, being important, and being assisted by their assistants. I am jealous. Finally we arrive at the office of the important man I’m here to meet.
“Please do take a seat,” says the assistant. “He’ll be here in just a second. And help yourself to a pastry!”
She says this with joy in her voice and indicates a plate of them. She hovers by the door, waiting for me to take one, but I’ve just finished mine and I don’t really feel like another. She looks disappointed.
“I’ll have one in a moment,” I promise, but the door has closed.
I stare at the pastries in silence. The door opens and in strides the important man.
“Danny!” he says, and we shake hands. “Have you had a pastry yet?”
“I haven’t!” I say. “I just finished one of my own.”
“Oh,” says the man. “Well, have another!”
“I’m fine,” I say, patting my tummy and making a satisfied face, to show that I am satisfied, and that I have a tummy.
“They’re very good pastries,” says the man, raising his eyebrows and pushing the plate slightly towards me. “Freshly made. Bought especially for this meeting!”
“Please don’t let me stop you,” I say, generously. “Do please feel free to eat one yourself!”
“Well, you first,” he says. “I had quite a big breakfast!”
“Well, maybe I’ll have one when you have one!” I say.
We are both being very jolly about things but it is clear that there is a certain tension growing. This is becoming some kind of pastry-off.
“Come on,” he says, picking up the plate. “I insist.”
“I really couldn’t,” I say, quite firmly.
There is an awkward moment. Suddenly, the important man’s voice lowers. His eyes dart nervously towards the door.
“We’ve got to eat a pastry,” he says.
“We’ve got to. She went out to get these this morning. She went to a lot of trouble.”
I suddenly realise the seriousness of the situation. If we don’t eat one, the important man will get into trouble. Hey, I might too!
“But I just had a croissant,” I whisper. “Downstairs! Moments before coming up! I think she even saw me!”
“I had a full English,” he says, desperately. “I’ll be lucky if I can fit a coffee in. Please!”
Suddenly, by the frosted-glass door, we hear the assistant, shuffling about. We both fall silent. The important man puts his hand out, ready to grab a pastry if she walks in. It is absolutely terrifying. It’s like that bit out of Jurassic Park. We can see her shape through the glass. We hold our breath. For a horrible moment, it looks like she’s reaching for the door handle, but then a phone rings and she stalks away. We breathe out.
“I might have to hide some in my desk,” says the important man. He suddenly seems a little less important than before.
“But we’re grown men!” I want to shout. “Grown men shouldn’t need to hide pastries in a desk!” But I don’t. Instead, scared, I say, “Good idea,” and decide to help him.
He stands and grabs two small pastries and tip-toes over to the desk, never taking his eyes off the door. While he does that, I wrap a croissant in some tissue and pop it in my bag, then do the same with a pain au chocolat. We break it in two to make it look like it’s been somehow devoured.
“Hey,” I say, “turn the plate slightly to make it look like it’s been constanty to-ing and fro-ing between us.”
“Yes! Good!” says the important man. “How about crumbs?”
Silently, we sprinkle crumbs over the table and on two plates. The important man scrunches up a napkin and tosses it on the floor. I carefully place a flake of pastry next to it, and then two more. We look around us.
“Perfect,” we say.
We have our meeting. When it’s over, we flinch as his assistant strides in. She takes in the scene. Her face falls. It is one of devastation. It looks like we’ve been throwing foodstuffs at each other for an hour. She scans the room, trying to work out where her huge number of pastries have gone. All that remains is one small piece of Eccles cake. The man and myself look at each other, guiltily. We shake hands and say goodbye.
“I don’t think I want an assistant,” I think, as I leave. “It is too much like having a boss.”
I offer my croissant to the homeless man outside. He declines.