I have a weird life at the moment. After years and years and years of being an office slave, a few months ago I singed a few bridges and took a flying lurch into the unknown. On the same day I left my (not very well paid but at least regularly waged) PR job, I went into what has now become my second home, the local, and begged for a job. I actually did beg as well.
They took me on part time. And so began my Weird Life. Three nights a week I work like a dog behind a bar. It's brutal. It's seriously brutal. You don't get a break at all, unless you smoke. Non smokers are fucked. So, as a reluctant smoker, I'm sort of forced to smoke more just so I can sit down for 60 seconds occasionally.
I get shouted at. Frequently. Just the other night I chatted to the chef for a millisecond and got screamed at. By the end of a hot, sweaty evening I'm covered in beer and the unnamed gunk that seems to be everywhere. My feet are wet and my back aches. I've been groped, leered at, sneered at and laughed at by increasingly drunken customers. And I'm knackered.
If I come in in a good mood, I'm asked whether I got laid last night. If I come in a bad mood, I never hear the end of it. I'm called old, a spinster, weird, moody, angry, and, memorably, the other night was likened to Gordon Ramsey. I hope not facially. I'm frequently told I don't work hard enough, that I chat too much and that I'm too slow. It's sort of like working in the 1970s. And there are no rules, or at least, they seem to change every day.
And yet, today, as I sat learning how to make Long Island Ice Tea and Raspberry Mojito and tasting them at 3 in the afternoon when most people I know are tied to a chair in some grey office block, I realised that between this job and my writing, I'm pretty fucking lucky.
[PS. If you see spelling errors in this blog or the previous blog it's because I'm writing it lying on the floor with a fat cat lying on my hands. Tis difficult to type.]