As in: Why are you driving so fast? Why are you driving so slow? Why are we so late? Why are you still working here when you hate it so much.
Actually I know the answer to the last one and it wasn't even asked, but Chef did ask all the others this morning as he accompanied me on my daily delivery route, mostly to annoy me I think.
So, in order: I'm going so fast because you told me to slow up; I'm going so slow because that's the speed limit here and, as you reminded me two minutes ago when I ran an orange light, it's my driving license that's on the line here; we're so late because the lift is broken and I had to load the truck up and down two flights of stairs on my own AGAIN, and because when I came to pick you up you kept me waiting 15 minutes not the two you claim, and because it's back to school after half term today and the school-run mums are blocking the roads that haven't already been blocked off by the Flics because Chirac is in town today. All of which makes me think hard about the last question, especially after I heard you shouting down the phone at the last person who quit (after a week in the job) at the end of last week.
Then I get to spend this afternoon peeling potatoes in the cold room all afternoon, freezing to death. Actually I quite enjoyed that, at least I was doing something linked to cooking and no one was shouting at me for no good reason, which makes a change.
I did get shouted at for one good reason today - I left a walk-in fridge door open for eight seconds while I put down the 40 kilos of potatoes I was carrying. Unfortunately for me, Chef happened by before I could turn round and close it so I had to get the full five-minute lecture on how I'm ruining the ozone layer, running up the electric bill here so high that he's going to go out of business and we'll all be jobless, how I'm shortening the life of the fridge compressor by a good year, how I'm going to let in warm air and cause condensation on the floor so deep that, when we're not swimming for our lives, we'll be slipping over and breaking our arms, wrists, legs, necks and the fine china we routinely carry in and out of fridges here.
Apart from that, a pretty boring day.
Marie, poor thing, isn't very well at the moment; a suspected stomach ulcer, so back to the toubib tomorrow.
More writing for me tonight. I must be very wicked, I haven't had any rest for about 83 years. Well, that's what it feels like.
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