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SO I NEVER WAS A VERY GOOD WAITRESS…


SO I NEVER WAS A VERY GOOD WAITRESS…

Always likened it to prostitution – 
like kissing the ar🤬es of pr🤬cks for cash...

Though, I didn’t much mind running my own cafe market stall in Eire – but I was working for myself - plus customer’s cake and coffee gushings... 

Most likely, the only rural Ireland stall percolating Lavazza - 'cause I never d🤬ck about confusing coffee with the bilge water...

And somewhat drug baron-style, it had me rolling around in piles of profits - and only by topping up dragons, gasping on the backs of caffeine fiends.
But when I was waiting tables in this shmancy hotel, I was a proper poor dirty ho - never could keep myself clean... the restaurant manager subtly switched out my white apron for the black bartender sort - awfully good idea, I thought – now still, I'm incapable of wearing white anything... 

Then I did this cashier gig, at a discount clothing chain we like to call Primarny” over here -  

So my manager's quiet word one day, that I should be taking better care of my hands, seeing as I was working with the public...
Just coming off a stint of woodworking – my hands resembling what I reckoned MacGyver's would've looked like.... Richard Dean Anderson MacGyver, not the poncy new one...

She too suggesting I cut down on the garlic... This setting me all “Ah mamma mia!" on her ass... what with what with my Italian heritage and a babyhood weaning from bottle to a bulb of garlic... my ancestors dictating adding at least four cloves to every meal – including breakfast...

But I can’t get away with my Italian-ness at all at all - even though, growing up, mam conversed solely in Italian with my grandparents...and last night over Skype, I realised her accent is an odd mix of South African/ Italian – coming out a smidge Capetonian Greek I reckon....

Unfortunately now, the only word I recall from childhood, is “Bastardo.”

So I lasted about a month in retail... having more to do with fluorescent lights and tills beep-beeping all day - and they were fast scooping out my insides...
But I never took kindly to soul sucking jobs, particularly pressure in keeping clean and looking respectable...

And why I’ve always liked working for children - not bad bosses...and the benefits are good - cuddles and such...but I'm preferring not to be giving out to them for ruining their clothes...  my empathy is believing that the kid's messy business, holds more joyous benefit than preserving the pristine Sunday best - inevitably, ending my own days caked in all kinds of cr🤬p...

But my ripened petulance struggles – accepting that I’ll always be working for someone - be it the government - or a supermarket delivering me pretty packages of sustenances.

Still, I like to believe that I’d be able enough to last a while in the wild - foraging on my own...

Now I’m thinking - after watching MacGyver doing it for over ten years, I'm almost certain, that he's taught me a thing or two.

Thanks Mac G




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