So I had a job, a very Essex job. And I quit it- today after the 3 month mark of being back in England. Now I’m not a quitter by any means- but I remember me and my best friend from school came up with a philosophy when we were about sixteen that “if it doesn’t make you happy, walk away from it.” (Funny enough we devised this little mantra after walking in the opposite direction to our school one Monday, bunking off for the day and sitting in the Costa coffee shop she worked in at weekends, drinking free coffee.)
Now I’m not saying this is mantra to live by, not by any means- sometimes in life there are things we have to do whether we like it or not; pay taxes, go to school (although me and my little friend didn’t think so at the time) but I miss that straightforward way of thinking – that in life there is happiness and unhappiness, and it won’t take much more than a day off school and a stolen Costa coffee carrot cake to levitate between the two- and this came to mind as I trudged off to work the other day.
I came back from Spain in September, handed in a C.V the morning after and started the next day. Now this is the most ‘Essex’ of venues, referring to the atmosphere, dress code and skin colour (I’m not talking ethnically, although the growing orange glow of the Essex population- male and female- could be categorized as an ethnic group at this rate.)
At first it was fun- it seemed to be the new ‘place to be’ and it really is a stunning venue. It was a brand new place, and there was a hopeful feel to it- it wasn’t a franchise or gimmick but a massive investment of time and money by a small group of people that really wanted this to work. But slowly I turned into one of those people that moan about their jobs- that make a face when they talk about their colleges and superiors, that scrape their feet and sulk on the way to work- and I swore I’d never be one of those people. Because at the end of the day- they’re just plain boring.
Anyway, there’s no need to bitch or moan about this place- firstly because I genuinely like most of the people there and secondly, I don’t really want to get in any kind of trouble. So the best way to describe it is, it was like being in a weird mash-up of The Only Way is Essex and a Martina Cole novel. When I got the job, the gravelly voice on the other end of the phone said “Babe, welcome to the firm” and I realised immediately that this was no TGI Fridays, a realisation brought to life with rumours of members of our ‘firm’ fired for stealing being beaten up in the car park, not to mention the being more cameras and locks around that a Swiss bank. Of course then there were all sort of interesting conversations to be over-heard by thick-looking (in reference to their necks as well as their IQs) blokes in trench coats and sports gear that were regulars, having “meetings” at the bar, (there aren’t inverted commas big enough to stress the irony in the word ‘meeting,’) conversations that made me feel naive and oblivious to the world and what really goes on beneath the surface.
The best bit was the commission of a picture- they had da Vinci’s The Last Supper painted and edited to include oysters, lobsters and bottles of Crystal champagne and pink Lauren Perrier bubbly at the table of Disciples that was to be hung above the oyster bar- a vision that truly horrified the Catholic in me. When we moved the huge piece from the store, standing back to take a look at the finished masterpiece sitting in its extravagant frame, it was commented that Jesus looked like a walrus, the others were in disagreement- they reckoned he looked like Boy George. I couldn’t help but look dismayed and slightly worried waiting for the thunderbolt to strike us all down dead, to which everyone took as step back from me, fearing that being religious was infectious. “Oh so you’re like, all Caflic then?” I didn’t take offense, because it’s not malice but ignorance that feeds prejudice. We fear what we don’t understand.
Shakespeare said “Ignorance is a curse from god; Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.” In a society where religion has become something to be suspicious of, we close our minds to possibilities and loose the tool in life that can truly get us to where we want in the world – knowledge is the tool, the wing, the key- every metaphor you can think of for opening doors and taking off . Not pieces of paper saying what we have or haven’t achieve in terms of A*-D, but the desire of wanting to learn for the pure joy of it- of opening your mind and expanding your horizons- I really believe that this is the way to self-fulfillment. We were all looking at the same painting in that store room but seeing a very different picture.
I wondered how the commissioned artist felt taking on copying and editing da Vinci’s master piece. Was it my Catholic ties that made me feel uncomfortable, or the fact that they didn’t even recognise the original painting they wanted to ‘Essex-up’? The only knowledge they had of the name da Vinci, was Darren Brown’s The da Vinci code. The general consensus was that Jesus looked pretty well-fed so it was probably a good thing that it was his last supper. I left the room.
This is by no means a deterrent to customers- the place is jammed packed every weekend, the restaurant fully booked, VIP areas in constant demand- I’m writing with a ‘upstairs downstairs’ vibe. I genuinely like the staff and owners (I may even have a slight crush on one of them- a man in a suit with great hair never ceases to catch my eye) but when someone that owns a restaurant asks you whether there is milk in an espresso, it’s time to move on.
(Just thought I’d drop that in there to save my neck from any red faced owners that try and murder me in the night…)
On the other hand by my reckoning, I thought being over 25s clientele, nice place, expensive prices would mean I’d meet a nice guy. The perks of the job of a bartender must be the people you meet right? Not quite. The problem with trying to see someone that you meet in a customer/ bartender ratio is:
A- He’s always dressed up in his nice clothes because he’s out, and you always look shit because you’re in your work uniform running around like a nutter, sweating and working.
B- Working in the bar trade, getting a weekend night off isn’t really going to happen, so when you free in the week, every other person- including the guy you’re trying to see in something other than your frumpy work uniform is going to be at work.
C- When they get drunk and slink off home with an equally drunk and slurring blonde, it’s at your place of work- so every other member of staff will take great pleasure in informing you of their antics that you missed. Nice.
So anyway apart from disappointing Essex men and the odd nutty gangster taking me out, (oh if I could only expand on that story here...) male talent was crossed off the list of perks of the job.
So what’s left- tips? Apparently not. Essex people for all their bling and Lauren Perrier guzzling, are not so hot on tipping it seems. It’s all teeth but no smile, and the owner’s statement of ‘I don’t believe in tips’ was slightly disconcerting…
I find I really pick up on a place’s and people’s energy- not as in super hero powers before you all get excited- but if I’m in an environment that is distinctly negative, it begins to leak into me, I take it in and feel with an intensity to the point my mum has cautioned me a few times to ‘stop feeling other people’s feelings.’ That uneasy feeling that hangs around my ankles began to ignite again, not quite touching me, but letting me know it’s there, not quite gone. It’s like a little creature- let’s call it my little goblin, that likes to let me know it’s still there whenever I wobble, like an annoying snotty child holding onto your leg, unwilling to be shaken off. I’d wander around the restaurant trying to breathe and stay calm polishing cutlery on perfectly laid tables and I’d feel it coming out from the depths of the dark and grabbing onto my ankles making my heavy with fear, the familiar blackness in my chest that makes everything feel far away. Far away and impossible. Only ten minutes of it, tops, only a couple of times. But I’d sit in the bathroom and give myself 10 minutes to decide whether to run out the door or tackle another 10 minutes. The ten minute rule is a gem to anybody on this earth- whenever you feel bad- ill, in a bad situation, deal with it in 10 minute manageable blocks, tangible time is easy to hold onto and control.
Of course it passed as it always does- but rather than be cross or disappointed that this snotty little goblin refuses to disappear- I looked around and saw this was exactly the environment my metaphorical creature would thrive in. And I was letting it happen. There’s nothing here that’s stimulating or motivating enough for me, and the reason why I wanted to work in a restaurant was because it’s fun and sociable, acting as a sidekick to my writing- not a drain on my energy. This place has not delivered so I thought, sod that- and I quit. I temporarily, forgot I was a writer- that’s my job so I better get on with it.
***
So I’m momentarily unemployed, in search of something more as I like to say; the search for the post-uni answer, for life’s answers in my own backward and chirpy way. I’m the kid that skips along barefoot and I’m skipping down the road towards whatever comes at me. I’ve signed up to volunteer instead, ranging from the Salvation Army to the local youth offenders support team. Slight unbalance in income there I know- I can hear my student overdraft letting out a grown and a sigh (and even a tut.)
This gesture of flinging myself to the wind might not be quite as admirable as Elizabeth Gilbert’s ‘Eat Pray Love’ which is really is my bible at the moment, (for a start, Gilbert got paid to write as she travelled around on her quest of self-discovery- I’ll be working weekends in a Frankie and Benny’s by next week most likely, my writing, volunteering and generally post-uni search for life’s meaning limited to week days only) but itchy feet are itchy feet and if something doesn’t make you happy and you can do something to change it, then do. Why not? There’s only one person that can stop you moaning and that’s yourself. So my lips are sealed (My pen, as usual, is not.)
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