An excerpt from my new book, The Thing Is (Proverse).

My first shift began at 6 am on Monday. I was greeted in the restaurant by a small camp man in his late thirties who introduced himself as Norman. Given the time of day and large pile of dirty plates in front of him, he was surprisingly perky.

“Morning! You must be the work experience?”

Given the time of day and large piles of dirty plates that would soon be in front of me, I was unsurprisingly un-perky.

“Yes.”

“Great. Put these on.” He chucked me a yellow shirt and apron. “Don’t worry I won’t look.”

He made a point of covering his eyes with his hands while I put the shirt on.

“Pick up a cloth then and let’s get you started on the plates. No time like the present!”

“Okay,” I said glumly.

“I’ll be sorting the coffee machine.”

With that, he bounced off singing along to the Victoria Beckham and Dane Bowers song, “Out of Your Mind” which was playing softly through the speakers. An hour later I’d finished the pile of plates. It was hard work. I leaned against the table, exhausted.

“Hey, hey. Hope you’re not slacking off!” Norman said, emerging through a fire escape door, smelling of cigarettes.

“No,” I protested, “look, I’ve finished.”

“You think you’ve finished? Good one!” He laughed. I didn’t. “Come and join me in the kitchen, my friend.”

In the industrial kitchen, a red-haired, scowling chef was slowly stirring a giant vat of baked beans. Norman pointed to piles of plates on an adjacent table. They weren’t dirty.

“But haven’t they been cleaned already?”

“They have. By me. Now they need polishing. You’ll need a fresh cloth and a jug of hot water. I can see you’ve got a lot to learn, my friend!”

“Hmm.”

“I’m going to go and finish up on the coffee machine.”

He bounced off, whistling “Out of Your Mind” again. Surely there were better things for me to do than clean already-clean plates? Surely there were better songs for Norman to be whistling? The chef was busy and made it quite clear he wasn’t keen on chatting. As I polished, with the humming of the kitchen equipment overpowering the radio and the stark lighting shining on the metal tables, I felt a pang of loneliness. Was it going to be just me, Norman and the solemn chef all day? Is this what working life was? I glanced at my watch to see it was only 7.15 am and consoled myself that I would have still been in bed otherwise. At least I was being productive. It would have been nice to get a paycheck at the end of it but you can’t have it all.

“Fleetwood” Hall

Norman returned half an hour later, once again smelling of cigarettes. He asked me to pick up as many plates as I could and follow him back to the restaurant. He defied his thin frame by expertly carrying two large piles as my arms shook under the weight of one. As we arrived at the restaurant I was relieved to see that another colleague had arrived.

“Good morning, Mariana!” Norman said. “What time do you call this?”

“So sorry,” she said in a Spanish accent. She looked hurt. “I thought I start 8 am?”

“You do Mariana. I’m only joking!”

“Not so funny.”

“This is the work experience,” Norman said pointing to me.

Did he know my name? I introduced myself and as Norman departed for another cigarette, Mariana and I set the tables for breakfast. Her English was iffy but I can listen to a Spanish accent all day. She was attractive — petit, olive skinned and dark brown eyes. I learned she was from Almeria and spending a year at Leeds University. Some basic arithmetic told me this meant she was at least four years my senior and therefore I had no chance. Comfortable with this, I felt no nerves and we settled into pleasant conversation. I gathered she didn’t like Norman.

The grumpy chef and Norman began setting up the breakfast buffet and Mariana and I were asked to stand at the door and greet guests. By 8.45 am no guests had arrived. I was getting restless. A man in his sixties eventually ambled in and I showed him to an available seat, of which there were many. Norman raised his eyebrows and nodded his head aggressively at Mariana who picked up a pot of coffee. The man went to the buffet, returned with a precariously full plate and sat down again. Over the next two hours, three more guests arrived, Mariana poured them coffee, I cleaned up their plates and they left. That was the extent of the action. The rest of the time was spent standing around, doing nothing.

“Okay, good breakfast. Well done team!” Norman said, closing the restaurant doors at 10 am. “Now let’s prepare for lunch. Mariana, you and I are going to strip the tables. Work experience, can you get back into the kitchen and polish the plates? Sorry, I’ll stop calling you that. What’s your name again?”

I stood near the sullen chef and polished plates for two long hours before two more colleagues arrived, looking annoyed, at midday. Gianluca was a twenty-something Italian student with a goatee beard and Dwayne was from another school and also doing work experience. They were both incredibly lazy and I liked them. Gianluca spent his time rolling cigarettes and trying, fruitlessly, to flirt with Mariana, while Dwayne believed he had cracked the system.

“If you tell Norman you are sorting out the store cupboards, he’ll leave you alone and doesn’t come to check. I just sit there. It’s great.”

I liked the sound of his ploy but didn’t want to push it on my first shift. Norman and Gianluca’s smoking and Dwayne’s skiving meant that for most the afternoon it was just Mariana and I polishing, setting tables, serving coffee and cleaning up plates. As much as I was fond of Mariana, I wasn’t having fun and was mightily relieved when 2pm finally came around.

“Work experience,” Norman said after I’d taken off my apron, “someone’s called in sick. I don’t suppose you can help with the conference this afternoon?”

I was desperate to go home. Instead, Gianluca and I served tea, coffee, and biscuits to thirty or so suited salesmen who were locked in animated discussion — “It’s a numbers game, we are on the frontline!” Gianluca just couldn’t have given less of a fuck about the job and got annoyed with a salesman who asked for a refill.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” he snapped, before leaning back against the wall and rolling a cigarette.

While I enjoyed talking to Gianluca about Italian football and admired his cool demeanour, the division of labour was wildly disparate. My legs were aching and I was ready to sleep for ten hours. After the last salesmen departed leaving a room of mugs, plates, and crumbs, Gianluca said, “I need to speak to Dwayne about something urgently,” and sauntered off, humming.

Dejected, I started loading the crockery onto a trolley. Norman walked in.

“Where’s Gianluca?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Right, well looks like it’s you and me to finish up, my friend!”

He was whistling the Dane Bowers and Victoria Beckham song again.

As I walked home I was physically and emotionally ruined. Is this what working life is? This is what I’ve got in store? The shift had seemed far too long. It had lasted forever. Is this what people do, day after day, forever? Fucking hell.

The rest of the week was much the same and oh, how I hated it. Chatting to Mariana was the only glimmer of sunlight. On the final Friday, I legitimately had to fetch a trestle table from the storeroom where I found Dwayne sat on a cardboard box, eating a Danish pastry.

“Come and join me mate. Do you want a cake? A bag of crisps? You name it.”

Was he stealing the hotel food? The alternative was preparing a coffee station with the elusive Gianluca so I sat down, relieved to take the weight off. Dwayne handed me a can of stolen cherry cola and as I was pulling back the ring pull, Norman walked in.

“Well, well, well, my friends. What have we got here?”

While I wasn’t officially sacked — after all I’d been working for free — I was advised that a future career at Fleetwood Hall was unlikely.

Thank you for reading! You can buy The Thing Is here.