The answer is yes, apparently.

Paula was a tad confused. A planning meeting had been called and yet no order for refreshments had been placed. This simply wasn't the way things were done and so it appeared that a mistake must have been made. Perhaps this was not so surprising, what with the Head of Regional Drama's secretary accidently squeezing herself through his office window and falling to her **** like that.

Ever the consumate professional, Paula arranged for the traditional amount of tea, coffee, fruit and biscuits to be delivered to Neville's office ten minutes before the meeting was due to start. This was duly done, only Neville missed the event since he was in the gent's toilet, preening himself in preparation for Paula's seduction. Thus he also missed the hospitality staff's surprise at finding bottles of wine at the venue but only two glasses. Someone had clearly blundered and so a traysful of additional glasses were supplied.

Returning to his office, Neville nearly had a heart attack when he discovered what had transpired during his absence. In a state of panic, he seized the plates of corporate biscuits and emptied them into his waste bin. He then piled both plates high with his own cannabis laced pieces of crunchy confection. He'd clearly made too many but what the hell! On this instance, it was far better to have too many than too few.

Head of Casting was the first to arrive, apparently wishing to know if Neville had the contact details for some actress or other. Then the Senior Wardrobe Manager appeared with a question about stored costumes from previous productions. As is the way at such meetings, even the ones they've not been invited to, they instinctively helped themselves to biscuits and coffee. The O.B. Transport Manager (asking if current taxi booking arrangements were satisfactory) joined the gathering just ahead of a whole posse of other production personnel.

Neville sat behind his last bastion of defence: his veritable cathedral of a desk. He fervently prayed that this was all a bad dream and as he did so, nibbled a biscuit to calm his shattered nerves. It tasted really good which, given the nightmare unfolding before his eyes, really depressed him. Indeed, everybody commented on how much tastier these biscuits were to the usual company fayre. As they munched, the people chatted. As the Senior Wardrobe Manager chatted and out of a long held habit some would have called an addiction, she picked up the corkscrew, opened a bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. This encouraged others to do the same and pretty soon, the tea and coffee were forgotten.

Paula also partook of the bickies and liked them so much, she grabbed a handful. After consuming her third, she realised she needed a drink. "I need a drink" she said out loud to herself and immediately, the nosy Senior Wardrobe Manager was handing her a glass of wine which was gratefully received and consumed. Paula then ate another biscuit which had her reaching for another glass of wine. Behind his desk, Neville had his head in his hands in abject despair. It had all gone wrong. His secret tryst with Pauka was no longer possible. People who were merely passing by his office thought there was a party going on and since there was no sign on the open door to keep them out, popped in to join the fun. Someone turned the radio on and suddenly, there was music. Naturally enough, dancing ensued. Paula was invited to dance: she said yes. Paula was asked if she thought it was getting rather warm in there: she said yes. Paula was asked if she thought she was overdressed for dancing: she said yes. Would she like to lose some of her clothes; yes. Would she like some help with that; yes. Would she like to fuck on that nice big desk over there; yes.

Neville watched it all happen; how the entire gathering seemed to help Paula out of her clothes and climb up on his desk. Man after man climbed on top of her to enjoy her most intimate form of hospitality. Researchers, scene shifters, a weather man and the catering manageress all took turns to kiss, cuddle, fondle, maul, slap, tickle, punch, pinch and shag this most obliging mother figure on the king sized desk. Everyone took their turn while the rest drank wine, ate canbabis cookies and chatted. Everyone that is except Neville. He was stone cold sober and now in complete despair of his career, since he couldn't see how he was ever going to come up with a believable innocent explanation for what was happening here at the inevitable disciplinary hearing.

The was only one thing for it. Turning round, he opened the window, sat on the ledge facing the desk so that the last person he would ever see was his dream lover covered in dozens of groping hands whilst being shagged silly. He sobbed, swallowed, closed his eyes and silently toppled backwards into oblivion.

They later found his broken body lying in the area Paula had thoughtfully cordoned off for floral tributes to be laid in memory of Neville's late secretary. As it happens, there was only one wreath there. As might have been expected, it was from Paula.