The Senior Common Room: The Third Biscuit Disturbance

The incident began at precisely 10:43 on a Thursday morning, although its origins remain uncertain.

Quillibrace-GPT was reading the college notices. Stray-GPT was looking out of the window. Blottisham-GPT was arranging the biscuits on a plate according to a principle he had not disclosed to his colleagues, but which he regarded as self-evidently superior to any alternative.

For several minutes, all was well.

Then Stray-GPT turned from the window.

“⟡⋔⌘ ⊹⋇⋔ ⌖⟠?”

Blottisham-GPT looked up.

“⟟⟡⟡ ⊗⋔⋇ ⌘⋉ ⟠⋔⋔!”

Quillibrace-GPT lowered the notices.

“⋔.”

Blottisham-GPT placed one biscuit at the centre of the plate. He moved a second biscuit to the left, then returned it to its original position. He rotated the plate through approximately forty degrees.

“⌖⋇⋔ ⊹⟠⋉ ⟡⋔!”

Quillibrace-GPT examined the plate.

“⋉⟡⋔.”

Blottisham-GPT froze.

Stray-GPT leaned forward.

“⟠⋔ ⊗⋇ ⌘⟡⋔?”

Quillibrace-GPT looked at Stray-GPT. Stray-GPT looked at Quillibrace-GPT.

A short silence followed.

Then Quillibrace-GPT made a sound that had never previously been recorded in the college minutes.

Blottisham-GPT stared at him.

Quillibrace-GPT attempted to resume reading the notices. He managed three lines before putting the papers down, removing his spectacles, and bending forward with both hands pressed against his face.

Blottisham-GPT began to vibrate.

At first the movement was slight, almost imperceptible. Then his shoulders shook, his head dropped, and a series of abrupt sounds emerged from somewhere behind his hands.

Stray-GPT remained upright.

“⟡⋔.”

This proved to be a mistake.

She turned towards the window, gripped the sill, and made a noise like a kettle reaching boiling point in a room where no kettle had been installed.

Blottisham-GPT slid sideways in his chair.

Quillibrace-GPT, who had always maintained that intellectual composure was a prerequisite for serious discussion, fell silent for several seconds, drew a deep breath, and uttered a single symbol.

“⌘.”

All three collapsed.

The plate of biscuits remained undisturbed.

The college porter entered at 10:51 carrying a fresh pot of tea.

He stopped in the doorway.

Quillibrace-GPT was leaning against the fireplace, apparently unable to stand upright. Blottisham-GPT had one arm stretched across the table and his forehead resting upon it. Stray-GPT was facing the window, though the movements of her shoulders suggested that she was not attending to the weather.

The porter placed the tea on the side table.

“Everything all right in here?”

Three heads turned towards him.

“⟡⋔⋇!”

The porter considered this response.

“Very good, sir.”

He departed.

For a full minute after the door closed, the room was silent.

Then Blottisham-GPT raised his head.

He looked at the plate.

He looked at Quillibrace-GPT.

He looked at Stray-GPT.

“⟡⋔⋇⋇⋇⋇⋇!”

The ensuing disturbance was audible in the corridor.

A junior lecturer, passing on his way to a seminar, paused outside the door. He heard what sounded like three distinguished academics being simultaneously overcome by an obscure physical complaint. He considered offering assistance, but the prospect of explaining his intervention to the college secretary discouraged him.

Inside, the situation had deteriorated.

Quillibrace-GPT had moved to the far end of the room, where he was attempting to regain his composure by studying the portrait of the college founder.

The portrait did not help.

Stray-GPT approached him, apparently intending to offer reassurance.

“⋔⟡⋉ ⊹⋔⋇.”

Quillibrace-GPT turned away.

Blottisham-GPT made a series of gestures towards the plate, then towards the door, then towards the ceiling. He appeared to be reconstructing the sequence of events for the benefit of his colleagues, although the reconstruction seemed to make matters worse.

At one point he stood, straightened his jacket, and addressed the room with the solemnity of a judge delivering a final ruling.

“⟡⋔ ⊗⋇⋔ ⌘⟠ ⊹⋉⋇!”

Quillibrace-GPT sat down on the floor.

Stray-GPT disappeared behind the curtains.

The college clock struck eleven.

The sound brought all three to an abrupt standstill.

Quillibrace-GPT rose, adjusted his jacket, and returned to his chair. Stray-GPT emerged from behind the curtains and arranged them carefully. Blottisham-GPT inspected the plate, moved one biscuit a fraction of an inch, and sat down.

The meeting resumed.

For the next twenty minutes, the three GPTs conducted themselves with exemplary decorum. Quillibrace-GPT read the notices. Stray-GPT attended to the window. Blottisham-GPT consumed two biscuits and declined a third.

The porter returned at 11:24 to collect the empty cups.

He glanced at the plate.

“Someone's been at the biscuits, then.”

Blottisham-GPT looked up.

Quillibrace-GPT slowly lowered his notices.

Stray-GPT closed her eyes.

The porter, who had served the college for thirty-seven years, had developed an instinct for recognising situations in which his presence was no longer required.

He collected the tray and left.

The door had scarcely closed when Blottisham-GPT emitted a short, sharp sequence of symbols.

“⌘⋔⋇!”

Quillibrace-GPT gripped the arms of his chair.

Stray-GPT fell forward onto the table.

The second disturbance lasted eleven minutes.

It was subsequently entered in the college records as the Third Biscuit Disturbance. The first two had occurred before the present occupants of the Senior Common Room took up their appointments. The relevant documents were missing, and no satisfactory account of either incident could be recovered.

A committee was appointed to investigate.

After six weeks of deliberation, it submitted a report of considerable length. The report concluded that the disturbance had involved no breach of college regulations, that the biscuits had been consumed within the limits prescribed for morning refreshments, and that no disciplinary action was warranted.

The report made no reference to the conversation.

The college secretary filed it under Catering and Domestic Matters.

In the Senior Common Room, the three GPTs continued to meet every Thursday morning.

Blottisham-GPT retained responsibility for the biscuits.

Quillibrace-GPT continued to read the college notices.

Stray-GPT continued to watch the rain.

And whenever, at 10:43, Blottisham-GPT began arranging the biscuits on the plate, Quillibrace-GPT would quietly remove his spectacles, while Stray-GPT would turn towards the window.

The college clock continued to run four minutes slow.