You can tell more about an organisation’s financial health, culture, and internal hierarchy from a single Peek Freans variety pack than from an entire year’s worth of board meeting minutes. In fact, at GSI, we sometimes joke that if you really want to forecast investor behaviour, don’t look at a Bloomberg terminal — just observe how people behave around the last chocolate hobnob.
It’s anthropology. It’s behavioural economics. It’s also, frankly, a bit of a mess.
The Custard Cream Conundrum
Let’s begin with a classic scenario.
A fresh tin appears in the office kitchen on Monday. It is glorious — full to the brim with digestives, bourbons, hobnobs, shortbread, and, yes, custard creams. For a few hours, morale is high. People are smiling. Productivity (anecdotally) rises by at least 4.7%.
By Tuesday, the chocolate options have mysteriously vanished. No one saw them go. There was no formal announcement. But somehow, by the time you get there, all that remains are four slightly cracked custard creams and an unopened packet of Nice biscuits (which are universally acknowledged to be the edible equivalent of a passive-aggressive Post-it note).
By Thursday, the custard creams have become a symbol. A litmus test. They sit untouched, a withering reminder that in life — and in economics — there is such a thing as diminishing marginal utility. The first biscuit is a treat. The tenth is an act of boredom. The last custard cream? A cry for help.
Inflation, Tin-Lid Style
Biscuits, as it turns out, are also a surprisingly good metaphor for inflation.
In times of plenty — when the tin is full and chocolate fingers flow like Prosecco at a corporate Christmas party — people behave irrationally. Some hoard. Some double-dip. Some loudly declare they’re “cutting carbs” while quietly nibbling Jammie Dodgers behind a monitor.
But when stocks dwindle, things change. Resentment builds. Passive-aggressive notes appear (“Please do not eat all the biscuits before 10am – some of us work late”). People start smuggling in their own snacks, and tensions rise as fast as CPI.
Introduce a period of austerity — say, a switch to supermarket-brand “mixed cream sandwiches” — and you’re looking at a full-blown morale crisis. People reminisce about the glory days of McVitie’s like pensioners talking about the 1966 World Cup.
Much like in monetary policy, perceived scarcity fuels behavioural extremes. Over-indulgence in a bull market. Hoarding in a bear one. And always, someone blaming “the interns”.
Biscuit-Based Risk Management
Risk, like calories, is everywhere — whether you acknowledge it or not.
You’ll notice some colleagues have adopted a hedging strategy. They bring in their own stash (the equivalent of holding physical gold), hiding it in desk drawers or labelled Tupperware. It’s never foolproof — there’s always the office magpie, the colleague with no understanding of boundaries and a weak moral compass. But it’s better than nothing.
Others engage in aggressive early trading — hitting the biscuit tin as soon as it arrives and “rebalancing” their selections into a napkin or mug “for later”. This is frowned upon but remarkably common, especially near quarter-end.
A few embrace passive investing — never taking the first biscuit, but always benefiting from the slow compounding of leftovers. These are the same people who read The Economist at lunch and talk about tracker funds at Christmas parties. Their strategy is boring — and weirdly successful now and then.
Then there are the truly reckless. The ones who reach in without looking. Who snap up anything crunchy, indifferent to type, origin, or expiry date. These are your crypto investors.
Supply and Demand (and Sandra from HR)
Let’s not ignore supply dynamics. The “biscuit buyer” (often Sandra from HR, or Dave in Facilities) plays a vital role. Too generous, and she risks overconsumption. Too frugal, and she’s accused of triggering a “biscuit recession”.
Quality also matters. Bring in Viennese whirls and the office sings your praises. Switch to off-brand oat thins and you’ll be remembered only as “the reason we all started bringing fruit”.
In some firms, a rotating biscuit budget exists — linked to team performance or client feedback. In others, it’s random. One day Tunnock’s. The next, rice cakes.
This introduces a concept familiar to professional investors: volatility.
The GSI Biscuit Index™
At GSI, we’re working on our own internal metric — the Biscuit Index™. It measures:
- Biscuit velocity (how quickly they disappear)
- Diversity of selection (chocolate-to-non-chocolate ratio)
- Sentiment (measured in sighs per visit to the tin)
It’s early days, but we’re confident that with a little AI, we’ll be able to use biscuit data to forecast quarterly morale, client service sentiment, and perhaps even long-term economic indicators. After all, if chocolate shortbread disappears 23% faster than oat crunches, doesn’t that tell you something about the appetite for risk?
Final Thoughts (and One Crumbly Lesson)
The office biscuit tin is more than a break-time treat. It’s a mirror to our financial souls. It teaches us about scarcity, behavioural bias, risk tolerance, and resource management.
So next time you’re faced with the last biscuit in the tin — or contemplating whether to overpay your mortgage or invest in a diversified portfolio — ask yourself: What would the biscuit tin do?
And if in doubt, take the custard cream. It may be unloved, but it’s consistent. Just like a well-diversified portfolio.
