Warning: This is a moany, self pitying post. Megan is feeling pretty grumpy.
Since my last blog post, not much has happened. I've worked a ridiculous amount (I mean really. Work is hard. They want me to actually do stuff and apparently it has to be done 'properly'. Ugh) and good news! I'm getting better. The dreaded steps have yet to trip me up although I'm still waiting for the day the floor and I become close acquaintances and I feel that I know what's occurring far more which has resulted in me being a little bit happier and thinking hey, perhaps I'm not sack-worthy! There's nothing like a teeny bit of self confidence.
It was half term last week. For those that don't know for whatever reason, that pretty much means that schools have a week off and so a lot of people go on holiday and touristy areas such as the place that I live are swamped with people in strappy tops, flop flops and shorts who are hoping that it is sunny. A fish and chip shop obviously attracts a whole lot of sunburnt people. The place was absolutely packed most days and so I worked every day. In the place that I work, I spend most of the time in the restaurant taking orders or in a tiny kitchen where the drinks are prepared and the mugs etc are washed by an industrial washer that blows out a whole lot of steam. As you can probably imagine, with a crowded restaurant (I'd guess we can do around 50 people at once?) there is a hell of a lot of stuff that needs to get put through the washer pretty damn quickly. In short, the kitchen gets Hot with a capital H. The waitresses are usually flying around going from table to kitchen to fish fryers to table to kitchen to fryer... you get the picture. Anyone who says that working is not a work out is wrong.
But it's not the working that I have a problem with. When the customers are leaving and you're wiping down the tables at a pace that seems snail-like compared to the way that you've been manically moving around at, it's actually very satisfying to think that you've got through the shift without collapsing in a mangled heap.
No, what really grinds my gears are the following words;
'I'm just going to pop outside'
This exact wording of this probably varies from place to place but where I work, 'I'm just going to pop outside' is the way of saying 'I'm going for a smoke'. Now, this would be perfectly okay with me if we were completely quiet and no one was waiting to be served or receive food or, actually, waiting for anything. If we had nobody in and we were all sat around doing nothing, it would be a brilliant time to go outside and feed a habit. Any other time? Yeah, I'm not okay with that.
Off the top of my head, I think that I'm one of two waitresses that don't smoke and it's not often that I'm working with her, so I am usually with at least one other waitress and a manager that smokes. I don't actually have a problem with smoking; you want to smoke? You puff your little lungs black, honey. But do it in your own god damn time. Why is it that I, who often starts and finishes the same time as you do, should cover your tables as well as mine and stay inside on a gorgeous sunny day while you go out for ten minutes and smoke three or four times a shift? Me no comprehenday.
We each have a radio at work so that we can contact the kitchen and each other (it's actually pretty nifty) and the more I hear '*person*, your tables food is ready' 'Oh, Meg can you get that for me?', the more it really starts to grate on me. This all sounds like a pretty childish rant because boo hoo, I have to do more work than anyone else, but that's not it. I just feel that the simple fact that I don't smoke shouldn't mean that I can't take a couple of minutes to sit down and chill out. Regroup. Calm. Because it can get pretty damn stressful in this bloody chip shop.
And that goes for any work place. Remember that episode of Friends where Rachel is left out of decision making because they're all gathered on the roof smoking and talking about business?
"It's like I'm being punished for not having this disgusting, poisoning habit!"
I'm with ya there, Rach. It's an absolute bitch.
So don't complain to me that you're so hot in the kitchen or your feet are hurting or you've barely sat down all day because buddy, I too have been in this kitchen and my feet are throbbing like a son of a gun. Only guess what? I don't have an excuse to 'pop outside' and take a nice breath of air for ten minutes and rest my bones when I feel like it because hey, I'm supposed to be working.
Cor blimey. It don't 'alf do me 'ead in!
Rant over.
M x
