My boss made a rule: no more than two glasses of water a day, to “reduce time wasted at the cooler.”

So, to help him enforce it fairly, I made a form requiring a witness signature for every single trip, plus his own final approval. By 5 o’clock, he had signed his name 43 times, and HR had already called twice to ask if we were “conducting a hydration experiment.”

Martin Penn wasn’t new to weird rules. He’d been hired eight months ago as the regional manager of our small Birmingham marketing office. At first, we gave him a shot. New boss, new ideas. We even laughed when he introduced a “Quiet Hour” from 2 to 3 p.m., where no one was allowed to talk—even over Slack.

But the rules kept coming. No coffee after 4 p.m. “Too many bathroom breaks.” No food that smelled stronger than “mild cheddar.” And worst of all—no sitting between 2 and 4 p.m. “Blood flow is key to productivity,” he said, while standing on a yoga mat and lecturing us like some business monk.

Most of us just tried to get through the days. Rent was high, the job market was cold, and hey, the health insurance wasn’t bad. But when he announced the “water rationing initiative,” something in me snapped.

It was August. We were working during a heatwave, and he wanted us to count sips?

So, I stayed late one night and whipped up a masterpiece: the “Liquid Intake Verification Log.” It had all the drama of a government document. Columns for “Time of Request,” “Ounces Requested,” “Purpose (e.g., thirst, dry throat),” and “Witness Signature.” At the bottom? A required sign-off from Martin himself.

I posted copies in the breakroom, kitchen, and even taped one to the cooler. I figured he’d either find it ridiculous or—if I knew Martin—take it seriously.

He took it seriously.

The next morning, I found him proudly inspecting the form, pen in hand. “This is exactly the kind of structure we need,” he said. “Thank you for being a team player.”

By 10:30 a.m., the novelty wore off. People were lining up outside his office, waiting for his signature just to refill a cup. He tried to implement a digital QR version—yes, really—but IT told him it would take two weeks.

By lunchtime, he looked exhausted, hunched over a pile of forms and sipping his third black coffee, which, ironically, required no permission. Just endless caffeine, the hypocrisy of kings.

Around 3 p.m., someone from HR called him. I didn’t hear the whole conversation, but words like “wellbeing,” “OSHA,” and “lawsuit” floated out from his glass office.

At 5:27 p.m., I got the email forwarded by my friend Nora in accounting.

“SUBJECT: Urgent – Hydration Policy Inquiry”

Apparently, HR had been contacted anonymously about the water restriction. The message said it might violate basic health and safety policies. They also attached a screenshot of my form.

Martin didn’t confront me that day. He just sent out a vague all-staff email about “reassessing hydration strategies in alignment with regional guidelines.”

The next morning, Martin came in looking like he hadn’t slept. He wore his “Leadership Starts With L” shirt and kept muttering to himself while pacing. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone.

At noon, he called me into his office.

His desk was bare. No charts. No motivational quotes. Just a crumpled protein bar wrapper and a sweating coffee cup.

“You think I’m a joke, don’t you?” he said. Not angry—just tired.

I sat down. “I think you’re making it really hard for people to do their jobs. We shouldn’t need a sign-off to drink water.”

He stared out the window for a minute. “When I got this role, I was told the last manager let things slide. That the team lacked structure. I thought if I kept things tight, I could keep it from falling apart.”

I softened a little. It wasn’t easy, but I did.

“You can have structure without treating us like middle schoolers,” I said. “People don’t mind rules. They mind being treated like they can’t be trusted.”

He didn’t reply, but later that afternoon, he sent out another email.

“Effective immediately: all hydration policies are nullified. Please drink responsibly.”

It ended with a smiley face.

We thought that was the end of it. But something shifted after that.

He stopped hovering. He even started showing up to the breakroom, sipping tea and chatting about his dog, a shaggy lab named Trevor who apparently hated rain and loved cucumbers.

We were suspicious. I mean, this was the same guy who once banned beanbags from the lounge because they were “morale-softening.”

But the changes kept coming.

He reinstated lunch deliveries, brought back casual Fridays, and let us vote on the music played in the open floor area. (We banned his Coldplay playlist—democracy has limits.)

Then came something none of us expected.

A “Recognition Wall” popped up near the kitchen. He called it “The Shout-Out Spot.” Anyone could write a sticky note for someone who helped them out or did something cool.

One Monday, I walked in and saw a note stuck under my name: “To the hydration hero—thanks for reminding us we’re allowed to be human.”

It wasn’t signed, but I had a feeling it was Martin. Especially when he nominated me for the monthly “Above & Beyond” award, which came with a £25 Costa gift card and—no joke—a plastic trophy shaped like a water droplet.

I still keep it on my bookshelf.

A month later, HR called me in for a real meeting. I thought maybe it was something about the prank I pulled where I replaced all the meeting room signs with fake inspirational quotes.

Instead, they offered me a promotion.

They were opening a new regional office and needed someone to help train the incoming team. “We’ve had our eye on you for a while,” the HR director said. “You’ve got a way of… resolving chaos with humor. That’s rare.”

The job came with better pay, more flexibility, and even my own corner office—with a mini fridge. No water restrictions. I accepted on the spot.

When I told the team, Martin clapped. Actually clapped. He said, “I always knew you’d end up managing people. You’re better at it than I am.”

I almost believed him.

On my last day, he pulled me aside and handed me a small box. Inside was a silver keychain shaped like a water bottle. On it, engraved: “Never Dehydrate Your Spirit.”

It was so corny, I laughed. But it meant something.

Then came the twist no one saw coming.

Three months into my new role, I was invited to a leadership conference in Manchester. The keynote speaker? “Martin Penn – Transformational Leadership and the Humble Pivot.”

I nearly choked on my tea.

I expected to roll my eyes through the whole thing. But when he took the stage, he looked… different. Relaxed. Like someone who’d stopped trying to control the world with forms and acronyms.

He talked about the water rule. He actually showed a photo of my “Liquid Intake Log” on the big screen, and the audience laughed. He told the story with humility and humor and said, “Sometimes your team teaches you the lesson you were too proud to learn.”

He got a standing ovation.

Afterward, we ran into each other by the coat check. He grinned and said, “Guess I owe you more than one coffee now, huh?”

I smiled. “Just keep letting people drink water, and we’re even.”

We took a selfie together for the conference newsletter. It was captioned: “From Control to Compassion: A Workplace Redemption Arc.”

So here’s what I’ve learned.

Sometimes the people who seem like tyrants are just scared of being seen as weak. They overcompensate with rules, systems, and control. But when someone challenges them—kindly but firmly—it gives them a chance to grow.

You don’t always need to shout to create change. Sometimes, all it takes is a ridiculous form, a little patience, and the courage to speak up when something doesn’t feel right.

Now, in every new team I join, I bring that same energy. I encourage openness, laughter, and the idea that people aren’t robots. We’re messy, thirsty, stubborn, kind human beings.

And no one—no matter their title—should ever have to earn the right to a glass of water.

If this made you smile, laugh, or roll your eyes in recognition, hit that like button and share it with someone who’s been through their own bizarre workplace saga.

Have you ever had a “hydration moment”? I’d love to hear it.