Career Opportunities (Part 6)

One afternoon we are called over to Terminal One where a hundred or so would-be passengers who are supposed to be on a plane to LA, are stuck around a dining table in a huge sparse but thickly carpeted room, a floor to ceiling window facing the runway so they can watch other passengers take off towards their destination. Their flight has been delayed for 6 hours and so they’re being treated to a three course meal to try and dispel their ill feelings towards Gatwick Airport and its staff. Six of us have been sent from the Village Inn to pretend to be silver service waiters for the afternoon.

The men who run the kitchen are a camp bunch who swear a lot. We are given silver trays full of food and pushed out the kitchen doors towards the unhappy looking passengers. The trouble is, whereas everyone else has been given a professional silver tray, I’ve been given a tray made of tin foil, like the trays you get when you buy a quiche from the supermarket, only larger. So when I go out with a tray full of peas it flops about. There’s no way you can carry it in the professional one hand aloft manner without it sagging. A trail of peas mark my path from the kitchen to the dining table.

“Would you like peas?” I ask, as they tip off of the tray and run around the whiter than white table cloth.

“No,” shouts one woman, “I want a knife, why haven’t I got a knife?” She asks malevolently, as if I’ve somehow stolen it.

“I’ll get one when I go back to the kitchen.”

“My flight is 6 hours late and now you can’t even provide me with a knife.”

Oh I get it, the delayed flight is my fault too.

I dish out the remains of the peas and hurry back to the kitchen.

In the kitchen there aren’t any knives. There’s no time for discussing knives, there’s only time to fill my floppy tray with more peas and rush me through the kitchen doors again. I follow the previous trail of peas towards the table of angry passengers, holding on to the tray with both hands while the other staff, confident with their more sturdy trays, perfect the silver service pose.

“Do you want peas sir?” I ask as they drop from my toy platter.

“Do I have a choice?” he asks, his plate already full of them.

“Where’s my knife?”

If I don’t look at her maybe someone else will deal with this. I move to another part of the table, giving out extremely generous portions of peas.

“You with the blond hair, where’s my knife?”

I head back to the kitchen but there’s no refuge there.

“What are you using this for?” a white hatted chef asks angrily about my tray. “Call yourself a silver service waiter?”

“When did I call myself that?” is all I can blurt out as I realise the floppy tray is also being added to the list of things that are my fault.

They want me working in the kitchen, which saves me from Mrs No-knife. However they don’t tell me what to do so I begin by standing in a corner trying to look invisible but when this is interpreted as standing in the way I make out my shift has finished and go back to the Village Inn.

It’s quiet over here, the bar is closed, staff ‘look busy’ with serene tasks; polishing glasses, collecting trays and stray glasses. The washer-upper is out the back, whistling away, happy in the knowledge he doesn’t have to deal with customers or pests that frequent this airport like holiday makers and employers. I’m beginning to see why he likes his job.

I’m not liking mine though. As the days continue they keep me away from the bar. Infact they seem to be running out of jobs to keep me away from. I decide to make it easier for them. A few days later I hand in my notice. Nobody objects.