Diary of a Deli Worker

Sunday 22 June. Day before the deli date. 

I often feel like everyone is rooting for me. Like life is a sit-com. Some might say escapism but I just don’t really think about it. I have a new job starting tomorrow, as a deli worker and I’m kind-of-slightly-sort-of nervous. Worst case scenario is chopping off another’s finger; so if tomorrow I come home and haven’t drawn blood I will be pleased. I have nice friends and sleep on a futon, which I fold away off my mum’s floor daily. I can’t foresee a time when I’ll next have a bed but it’s not too rough because I get to sleep beside all my books.

Monday 23 June. Day of the deli.

In the morning I have to consider what are “working-pants” and “playing-pants”? I don’t want to use up my nice pants sweating it out in a deli but I also don’t want to wear ones that make me look like I still wear nappies through my jeans. Difficult difficult. I can reveal now - No blood was drawn, hurrah! Apart from at home when I gave myself a nosebleed blowing too hard on a piece of tissue paper. Learnt that tapping frothy milk lightly is not enough to release the bubbles BUT too violently will leave a mess all over yourself and the countertop, spilt milk if you will, everywhere. Barbora the patient stern angel of the Deli keeps on at me about facing the door in a sort of 3/4 length profile whilst I work so as to always notice customers when they come in. This makes pouring things difficult, and made it look like I was threatening people with the bread knife when waving them in to the shop whilst cutting the ciabattas, which Barbora also noted and I will endeavour to correct. Delicious artichokes.