So there I am, about 0915 in the kitchen of one of the deliverees, when my batphone rings. Normally this would be the Chef or S-C telling me that I've forgotten something, done something wrong, whatever.
But it's New Chef, saying I can definitely start on December 1, he'll have my contract ready before then, looking forward to working together, nice to speak to you.
So when I return to the kitchen beaming I have to reply, "Oh, nothing special" when asked why I look so happy.
Then when I get back to the factory, there's a delivery to send out which the S-C is making up now. I leave at 1120 and drive across Nimes to the other side of the prison to deliver it, and get back at midday.
Whereupon Chef says that he's going to fit a rocket under the delivery truck because I'm so slow, the boss of the place to which I've just delivered has been on the phone complaining that I hadn't delivered his lunches.
When, I wonder, did he call?
This, apparently, doesn't matter but it turns out to be 1145 - 10 minutes after I delivered to a room full of people happy to see their lunches but too busy to eat them right now.
I should, Chef tells me, have been there by 11. But, I point out, the lunches weren't prepared until 1120. But, he points out, this doesn't matter when you're using Super Twisted Logic rather than Sanity to make your point.
Ah.
The afternoon passes as usual, making up orders for the next day, shrink-wrapping them, machine-wrapping them and washing up. At the end of it all, as yesterday, the S-C buggers off early to go and play tennis - in much the same way as I'm allowed to bugger off early when I feel like it.
This, by the way, is called sarcasm.
Home and Marie's been to the doctor; she definitely has a suspected stomach ulcer, so messages of sympathy to her; a month of medicines and then an endoscope down the throat to see what's going on. Painful and not much fun at all.
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