KITCHEN PORTER OF THE YEAR AWARDS
"Can I borrow these?"
Understand I had just washed, polished and presented these glasses on
unfolded navy blue paper napkins on a trolley.
"No."
The silence was unbearable. I could almost hear the glasses
shine.
"Well you're not in charge here young man, you just work in the
kitchen."
The term, I thought to myself, as used by my employers and friends, is
'kitchen porter'.
"You're fat and have ruddy cheeks and wear too much perfume that smells
bad like old drawers."
She took one too many deep breaths like every step and blink resulted
in exhaustion.
"Who do you think you fucking are?"
I like it when people get cross and I don't mind, and thought about
special ID for this kind of scenario.
"Lady I'm kitchen porter of the year and this is my turf."
Her eyes contorted painfully and I noticed her hair was lank and
receding.
"I just want a glass of water."
There was no backing down now.
"Pardon me but you will just have to wait until afternoon tea like all
the other residents."
I could hear her brazen sobs all the way down the un-mopped corridor,
through the dining room and into the communal lounge.
