28 July 2012
The dull hum of hot fryers, The smell of fat and starch in the air. The heat in the room rising. No one bothered enough to care. Then five'o'clock hits... And those customers come through, Ordering me about, As I tell others what to cook and do. It's just a small classic order. "Cod and chips... Twice" I call out my orders, Then declare to the customer the price. "It's four twenty for a cod, Five forty with a chips, You want two of those? Any curry sauce or dips?" My partner is my fryer, He cooks the fish I need. I've a counter part in the corner. He cooks what I need, to feed. Together they present a fat full delicious meal. And this trend goes round and round. Like never halting wheel. Accidents happen every night. I'm left, hurt and burned, But I dont sue or start a fight. "it's just a part of the job" I've learned. I tell my boss I'm worth more than he pays. Eight'o'clock comes, and I'm filled with joy. No need for me to be nice, or try to act coy. The customers have gone, And to cleaning, I get to work. The grease it hides, In every corner it lurks. But then again I'm only paid till eight. I excuse myself and leave.. Those working till half past, hate...
©Odd
Typical working shift for little me. My arm looks like a underground map from the burns I receive.
The Chip Inn • Opuss № I