Work Shite. People come here to feed on the unecessary, the luxurious, The emperor’s new clothes. Bollocks. It’s the repeatition. Set up, run,run,run, clear down. Same process everyday, getting nowhere, making no significant contribution. Treading water, killing time. Humouring kept women and closet homosexuals in tweed, and ladies with teeth which aren’t there own, who belong to a different era. My vocabulary is collapsing in on itself. Soon I’ll be left wiht only the staple phrases which constitute the linguistic diet of a waitress: ‘Large or small?’ ‘White or black?’ ‘would you like a bag?’ ‘is there anything else I can get for you?’ ‘Thank you so much’ ‘not to worry’ ‘oops’ ‘woopsie’ ‘oh dear’ ‘thanks, see you again’
Food with latinate names; Florentines, Campaillou, bruschetta, cheeses from Paris and Calais, walnuts, chocolates, cake made from polenta, latte, mocha, macchiatto.
‘sorry’
‘sorry’
‘sorry’
‘sorry’
‘sorry about that’
‘terribly sorry’
‘ awfully sorry’
‘really sorry’
‘I’m sorry’
And a stream of additional unfounded apologies which are the verbal diorreah of the Brittish working class.
I need a new philosophy. This won’t see me through. It will see me out of a job.
