I once worked on a godforsaken industrial estate with all the atmosphere of a Jovian moon.
The catering facilities were, at best, rudimentary and decidedly inferior, unless you had a thing about compressed gristle, margarine, and the kind of quadruple-processed carbohydrates a starving vulture would have turned his beak up at.
Last night the people in the apartment downstairs had a party.
They weren’t overly loud as such, but the volume level was certainly high enough to remind us that they have abominable taste in music, and for us to be painfully aware that for most of the evening all the guests seemed to be arguing with one another.
This dessert might have been the root cause of their grumpiness.