It could only have one ending

The playground games were getting a little tiresome for Adele. Working in a call centre with a bunch of adolescents who had yet to acquire enough life experience to make them even slightly worth listening to whilst at the same time having to tolerate the bickering of two older women who continued to fight over the best place to put the aspidistra was unbearable. In its natural habitat of Asia, it would have flourished and produced its rather insignificant little bronzed flowers without their assistance and she wondered how they could spend so long shuffling its pot, arguing over exactly how much water it required or whose turn it was to polish the leaves.
Polly, the one with the blonde and grey nest on her head, so solid that even the earphones didn’t make a dent in it, sat nearest to the plant and she could often be observed fondling its stem provocatively whilst spurting out a tirade of artificially acquired knowledge on the pros and cons of buying theme park passes either before or during one’s holiday to Florida.
Iris, the one who had brown hair which glowed orange under the light and wore boots, even in summer and complained at least twenty times a day about the temperature in the office, was not near enough to stroke the aspidistra although she showed obvious signs of distress at the thought of her colleague being close enough to do so. Occasionally, usually about eleven o’clock in the morning, she would leave her desk in an exaggerated manner, banging her swivel chair into the back of Polly’s as a form of revenge.
On Tuesday, Adele had had enough. It could only have one ending. She wrenched the stem of the aspidistra from its pot and put it triumphantly through the shredder.