TW: Miscarriage, violence, pet death, stalkers, black magick

There’s nothing like cleaning a public toilet to bring you firmly back down to earth. There’s something humbling about scrubbing a strangers shit stains from the bowl, wiping their dry crusted pee off the side of the seat. A stray pube. If you ever got on your high horse as an aspiring star, it’s an antidote I’d highly recommend for gallantly falling off. 

The coffee and cocktail bar I worked at in Waterloo (and it’s sister bar in Oval) was a hipster dive. On my first day, the manager (a former bubblegum pop star in Poland) was yelling at the owners, dramatically threw her pinny on the floor and walked out. The coffee machine was a 1950s Italian Gaggia- lovingly referred to as a “Jawbreaker”. My bosses illuminated me to this fact with a carefree chuckle after the faulty lever flung into my face -indeed nearly breaking my porcelain jaw. I spent the rest of the afternoon sulking with a bag of frozen peas on my face I bought from Iceland because, lo and behold, the ice machine was also broken. I would moan to the other waitresses that it was perhaps fashionable to have 1940s chairs, but did we really need to be so authentic that the mop was from the 1800s and the metal dust pan and brush too?! 

Vintage chic has a limit, and for me that limit is functionality and hygiene in a place where people eat and drink -where 2 cats roams freely. One of the cats died in fact. Probably from eating or drinking weird leftovers from a customer. The sad soft creature was often desperately dehydrated, drinking water from the tap over the sink where we washed dishes. They buried it in the first slush of wet cement out front before it was fully paved over by the council. Or something of equal horror and morbid sentimentality. I seem to remember they had to pull it up again?

At the torn and frayed end of my two year tether, I threatened to report them to occupational health and safety. After a waitress’s wrist (and tendon) was slashed by a broken wine glass on a slippery slanted wooden shelf, after all our formerly pretty hands had scalding scars and sores from the temperamental coffee machine; no rubber gloves to handwash the coffee cups and cake plates; after exhausting my respect and gratitude basically -they responded that I just didn’t get their “bohemian” vibe. This made me laugh. If there was one person who *got *Bohemians, it was me; I didn’t know one “suit” or “normie” in my whole life; we didn’t have hot water running in our kitchen during my childhood. My paternal grandmother was in a decade long ménage à trois and left hash cookies in the freezer for the family on weekends!

One of the waitresses I worked with now refers to our clan at the cafe/bar as a cult. So many of us ended up stuck there in a time warp, years longer than we ever anticipated. Like so many small businesses (as any friend whose day job is in hospitality or retail will attest), owners sometimes, often, welcome staff in to their “family” to create a culture in which it is easier for them to royally rip you off and take advantage of your wanting a “cool” job with “cool” people while they cut every corner they can at your personal expense. I don’t know if this is entirely malicious or conscious, but it’s a tried and tested phenomena of the small time capitalist. This particular work “family” had the catholic hipster cult of artsy goddesses thing down pat. Our boss was a handsome stoic ex airforce pilot from New Zealand who wore Hawaiian shirts and ran a scooter repair workshop. He roasted his own coffee beans and flew a vintage aeroplane on the weekends. His wife was beautiful, blonde, neurotic and charming. She came from a huge catholic family and liked us to wear 1950s pinafores, making sure the playlist on the iPod was jazz, chanson or something old timey. She befriended us on a very personal out-of-hours level. We were there when she went in to labour and brought her first baby home. She was a shoulder to cry on and a sounding board when we needed it. They lived above the cafe. They were a home and a family to all of us and I still love them, of course.

When I say “us”, I mean the staff. They hired women, because you sell more drinks that way I suppose. There was one man on staff, who worked at the bar further down south, perhaps because it was a bit rougher? That didn’t stop them from rostering me (and the other young waitresses) for solo shifts at this cavernous bar, where we closed up at 3am with the fear that any creep you served that night who decided they wanted to creep on you, just had to wait for this opportune moment while you shuttered to make their move.

I was a pretty fearless 21 year old when I arrived in London. I grew up in the red light district of Sydney, and played in bars and clubs since I was 14. I knew how to keep my head down and confidently deal with creeps and crazies. I was not prepared for London. I would fall asleep on the night bus, across the thames, up to Edgeware where all the hookah cafes and carpet stores were. I’d often miss my stop. One particular time this happened, I was chased down a dimly lit unfamiliar street by an Arabic man hurling “slut” at me, grabbing at me, until I gained some ground and waved down a black cab that whisked me away. I was living alone in a friends flat, and no one would have known for a while if I’d disappeared. I used my last £10 on that cab. 

Then came Tom Collins. Just like the cocktail, yes -“A sour cocktail made using a base spirit”.

“You’re Australian! My favourite Australian film is The Year My Voice Broke” 

“Really? That’s weird. My mother is in that film”

“Oh my god, is it Loene Carmen? She’s my favourite actress”

“Yes… ugh”

I suspect he had done his research, but Tom Collins took a shining to me at this bar further down south, where I often worked alone, as my boss tried to save costs on staffing. Tom Collins was in my ear non stop commenting on the way I looked, questioning me, rambling, accosting other customers, staying for hours on end at the price of one black coffee. He was a menace to us all. He was loose. Frightening. Hard work. Twisted. I’d have nightmares about him murdering me, and in fact, it turned out he left a hand-scribbled note in an empty DVD case for my bosses saying “you need to stop hiring filthy immigrants, tell Holiday to watch out, she’s going to get hurt”. They didn’t tell me about this, but they told the other staff. Eventually one of the girls told me, because she rightly thought it was unethical not to, and wanted me to be aware. I confronted my boss about it, he said he spoke to the police and they said until he did something to me, they couldn’t put a restraining order on him.

We were an interesting collection of beautiful young women trapped in the weekly “wage-cycle” (as a rich friend of mine liked to point out), working two jobs to cover rent, whilst also pursuing a career (usually in something creative). 

G was well educated, eloquent and fiercely witted, with a posh accent. She came from a family of famous architects and being the black swan wrote alternative poetry-laden music and took arty photos of filth in the cafe -like the bucket of gray water they made us wash cups in to save costs on water bills. She had a mildly famous Canadian musician boyfriend who often had her in tears of rage and embitterment. We’d catch them stalking each other down the street with arms flinging in the air mid-argument. She’s a like a pig in shit, just like me, in cynicism and unravelling the uglier sides of life.

K was raised by lesbian moms like me, and worked at a bookstore part time. Sometimes when I had no money left for lunch she would cook for me or offer to lend me cash. She was no bullshit; a protector. I will never forget watching this frazzled couple in the midst of an epic fight (several bottles of wine deep and in direct earshot), when the man cried out, humorlessly “we were the love story of the century!”, to which the woman drunkenly retorted “you broke my heart, my art and my arse!” at which point we both dropped to the floor behind the counter howling with silent laughter - “Did she just say Arse?”. We would sometimes put Bedtime Beethoven on the stereo 30 minutes before close to calm the drunken baby adults and kill the vibe. K bravely confronted a couple that had been fucking in the toilet cubicle (who had left jizz on the mirror) by eloquently explaining why it was disrespectful to her and others. It was like listening to an in-depth lecture from a brilliant ethics professor, as the dirty doers nodded their heads and whimpered away. I think the poor sod even went and cleaned his mess. No tips. We went to see O (a young French actress/waitress colleague) in her first play at The Globe and nearly got kicked out for hollering words of praise at her drunk in the rain from the “pleb” section of the theatre. Isn’t that what shakespearean times were all about? They should be lucky we didn’t have rotten vegetables to throw! 

H was a petite Australian woman who called everyone Darling and remembered every deranged patchouli scented, botox lipped, feral cat breeder customer’s name and order and became our manager. This put her in the uncomfortable position of trying to be our friend, while having the responsibility of reprimanding us. There were two Swedish girls with blonde hair, annoyingly svelte, poised and pretty. One told me that she didn’t understand what was so great about sex and that she usually just stared at the ceiling. I told her she must be doing it wrong or sleeping with the wrong people. Maybe she was a-sexual. She made great Kannellbullen at Christmas. 

S was somehow smiling and frowning at the same time; a slight look of perplexity and frustration mingled with soft care and concern. She played saxophone and danced flamenco. She laughed often, and it was a brilliant laugh. She was wise. She’d suffered a small brain aneurysm in her teen years and I like to credit this for the fantastic, bizarre and original clothing items and combinations she put together. I adored her. Her father was a painter, who went blind, but started making the best paintings of his life!

N was from a small village in Russia. She was a former classical guitarist and currently moonlighting as a Silent Film scholar who would frequently visit Vienna for festivals where fabulous nonagenarian silent stars would make grand appearances in furs and wheelchairs. She was totally divine, smouldering and tactile. R was polish catholic and looked like a soviet era high school teacher, she had great hair. She learned English very quickly on the job, and came to London to make music with a British producer/boyfriend about 20 years her senior, a fraught dynamic. When I walked in the door she would say “rrrock chic, I like your staiyle” (slight Borat accent) “mm, hee-pi staiyle”. I let her ruin my life and (I like to believe) a budding romance with a wealthy art dealer by asking her to trim my fringe one day -“hmm, space age! I like!”. My eyes popped out of their sockets at the bowl cut left behind. We were even when King Khan came in to the bar to visit me. He was doing a Jodorowsky tarot reading when she half-screamed half-squealed, visibly distressed, saying it was the work of the devil and not to do these things around her. She was probably right.  

A had long wavy blonde hair, was always sensible, smart and rational; she had a very long term boyfriend who wasn’t nearly as beautiful as her. One afternoon she turned to me and whispered in a slight panic “is that Johnny Depp? I can’t serve him, please can we swap!”. I looked at this wanker impersonator and said “no, it’s just some handsome try-hard wearing the same hat, you serve him”. The man went downstairs and within two minutes the regulars were coming up excitedly saying “is that Johnny Depp?”. I laughed them off, saying “of course not!” and went to serve him tea. Within minutes paparazzi had turned up and yes, the actual Johnny Depp shuffled out of the cafe. Kevin Spacey was a regular I never recognised either, he often sat in the disintegrating floral armchair in the corner. I suppose he’s still there, metaphorically speaking. The only famous customer I recognised was Wayne Swan (deputy Australian prime minister and treasurer). “Swanny!” I said, as if knew him, “Wanna beer?”. We sat down over candlelight together and discussed political gossip and the future of the Great Barrier Reef, he was animated and generous and it really felt like we *were *old friends by the end. 

Early one morning a homeless elderly man came in demanding a hot breakfast. We didn’t serve hot food at the cafe, so we offered the man crisps, cake, tea and whatever we had really. I’m pretty sure we offered cash too! He staunchly refused to settle for anything less and continued to demand a hot breakfast from our non existent kitchen. After much back and forth, the sensible and rational Ms. *A *said (in a painfully literal example, so ridiculous it did make me scoff) “Look, beggars can’t be choosers sir!”. 

The third memorable experience I share with Ms. A is one of those darker experiences you can’t quite believe is real. I went downstairs to mop the toilet cubicle floor at the end of the night shift, switched on the big light… and found blood pooled and smeared all over the floor with what looked like a portion of someone’s intestine. In total shock and horror (the kind where you start laughing -the pseudobulbar affect?) I went upstairs to *A *and said “I think someone has been stabbed and some of their insides have fallen out or something, what do I do?”. She was working at the hospital part time while training to become a dietician, so I thought she would be able to deal with it better than I. She got the torch for the coffee machine and looked at the piece of human tissue on the floor, it was… clearly a foetus, half the size of my thumb. Some poor woman had miscarried at a bar and walked away. I like to hope and believe she was really drunk and didn’t even realise it happened or know that she was pregnant. It felt like something you should have a clean up crew in white SOCO suits deal with. We wrapped it in a tissue and flushed it, and I mopped up the blood with a weird sense of guilt, disgust and disbelief. £5.90 an hour for this was NOT worth it. We told our boss what had happened, he didn’t know what to say and offered us a shot of Honey Krupnik and a £20 tip each for our troubles.

100 metres from the bar, on my way home that night there was a man lying on the side walk with blood pouring from every orifice. I stopped and stared at him -eyes glazed over, wondering if he was still breathing and what fresh hell I entered into that day. A gang of men who I assumed where responsible, ran past hollering. Thankfully, someone else who had the emotional wherewithal had stopped too and was calling an ambulance. I sauntered away.

Then there was a regular customer called E who was 6’2 with white hair, who spoke Spanish and looked like Zeus. He worked on construction sites and made art. I ended up at his house one night after a flamenco show at Sadler’s Wells. Between the energetic handclapping and dramatic guitar strums, something very bizarre happened to me. I kept hearing a voice telling me to “go to E” and the next thing I know (I didn’t even have his phone number or address) he is standing in front of me opening the door to his home in a grass skirt with a warlock cane with a skull on it, listening to forest trance. This is really weird, but he walked on my back and honestly I think he did some voodoo on me. He said he was roman catholic. I never spoke about it again until now, deeply disturbed by the memory. At one point he was homeless and swimming in public pools to wash. He grew a long white beard like Gandalf, I avoided speaking to him like the plague unable to process this strange memory, and the following Christmas, he brought me a children’s book called “The Gigantic Beard That Was Evil”. He also gifted the cafe a Twin Peaks Log-Lady style log and emailed me an image of him naked, crouched on it. H-E-L-P. 

Fairly, I was nearly fired one night for getting drunk and letting a cute director I was flirting with stick around after hours while I did a sloppy job of cleaning and spilled the giant bucket of sour milk that we collected under the counter. My mother visited at the end of my tenure and said I was a terrible waitress, blunt and dispassionate. You get that way after a while. I mostly enjoyed teasing the posh boys from Eton in their penguin suits after charity events and placating the dumb oil refinery guy who came once a month and tipped us 20s for every espresso martini.

I’ll leave you with a fun little story of the bosses catholic priestly dad telling me I needed to be saved (from Hell) for having shared a hotel room with my boyfriend at the time. I decided in that moment that I would very much like to corrupt his country boy son who had just moved to the big city and joined our ranks. I took him to Dalston Superstore for a Gay Bear night, where he told me wide eyed that a couple of MEN were loudly doing things to each other in the cubicle next to him. Maybe I am going to hell. Maybe this whole time in my life was hell, but either way -you better work, bitch. 

TW: Miscarriage, violence, pet death, stalkers, black magick

There’s nothing like cleaning a public toilet to bring you firmly back down to earth. There’s something humbling about scrubbing a strangers shit stains from the bowl, wiping their dry crusted pee off the side of the seat. A stray pube. If you ever got on your high horse as an aspiring star, it’s an antidote I’d highly recommend for gallantly falling off. 

The coffee and cocktail bar I worked at in Waterloo (and it’s sister bar in Oval) was a hipster dive. On my first day, the manager (a former bubblegum pop star in Poland) was yelling at the owners, dramatically threw her pinny on the floor and walked out. The coffee machine was a 1950s Italian Gaggia- lovingly referred to as a “Jawbreaker”. My bosses illuminated me to this fact with a carefree chuckle after the faulty lever flung into my face -indeed nearly breaking my porcelain jaw. I spent the rest of the afternoon sulking with a bag of frozen peas on my face I bought from Iceland because, lo and behold, the ice machine was also broken. I would moan to the other waitresses that it was perhaps fashionable to have 1940s chairs, but did we really need to be so authentic that the mop was from the 1800s and the metal dust pan and brush too?! 

Vintage chic has a limit, and for me that limit is functionality and hygiene in a place where people eat and drink -where 2 cats roams freely. One of the cats died in fact. Probably from eating or drinking weird leftovers from a customer. The sad soft creature was often desperately dehydrated, drinking water from the tap over the sink where we washed dishes. They buried it in the first slush of wet cement out front before it was fully paved over by the council. Or something of equal horror and morbid sentimentality. I seem to remember they had to pull it up again?

At the torn and frayed end of my two year tether, I threatened to report them to occupational health and safety. After a waitress’s wrist (and tendon) was slashed by a broken wine glass on a slippery slanted wooden shelf, after all our formerly pretty hands had scalding scars and sores from the temperamental coffee machine; no rubber gloves to handwash the coffee cups and cake plates; after exhausting my respect and gratitude basically -they responded that I just didn’t get their “bohemian” vibe. This made me laugh. If there was one person who *got *Bohemians, it was me; I didn’t know one “suit” or “normie” in my whole life; we didn’t have hot water running in our kitchen during my childhood. My paternal grandmother was in a decade long ménage à trois and left hash cookies in the freezer for the family on weekends!

One of the waitresses I worked with now refers to our clan at the cafe/bar as a cult. So many of us ended up stuck there in a time warp, years longer than we ever anticipated. Like so many small businesses (as any friend whose day job is in hospitality or retail will attest), owners sometimes, often, welcome staff in to their “family” to create a culture in which it is easier for them to royally rip you off and take advantage of your wanting a “cool” job with “cool” people while they cut every corner they can at your personal expense. I don’t know if this is entirely malicious or conscious, but it’s a tried and tested phenomena of the small time capitalist. This particular work “family” had the catholic hipster cult of artsy goddesses thing down pat. Our boss was a handsome stoic ex airforce pilot from New Zealand who wore Hawaiian shirts and ran a scooter repair workshop. He roasted his own coffee beans and flew a vintage aeroplane on the weekends. His wife was beautiful, blonde, neurotic and charming. She came from a huge catholic family and liked us to wear 1950s pinafores, making sure the playlist on the iPod was jazz, chanson or something old timey. She befriended us on a very personal out-of-hours level. We were there when she went in to labour and brought her first baby home. She was a shoulder to cry on and a sounding board when we needed it. They lived above the cafe. They were a home and a family to all of us and I still love them, of course.

When I say “us”, I mean the staff. They hired women, because you sell more drinks that way I suppose. There was one man on staff, who worked at the bar further down south, perhaps because it was a bit rougher? That didn’t stop them from rostering me (and the other young waitresses) for solo shifts at this cavernous bar, where we closed up at 3am with the fear that any creep you served that night who decided they wanted to creep on you, just had to wait for this opportune moment while you shuttered to make their move.

I was a pretty fearless 21 year old when I arrived in London. I grew up in the red light district of Sydney, and played in bars and clubs since I was 14. I knew how to keep my head down and confidently deal with creeps and crazies. I was not prepared for London. I would fall asleep on the night bus, across the thames, up to Edgeware where all the hookah cafes and carpet stores were. I’d often miss my stop. One particular time this happened, I was chased down a dimly lit unfamiliar street by an Arabic man hurling “slut” at me, grabbing at me, until I gained some ground and waved down a black cab that whisked me away. I was living alone in a friends flat, and no one would have known for a while if I’d disappeared. I used my last £10 on that cab. 

Then came Tom Collins. Just like the cocktail, yes -“A sour cocktail made using a base spirit”.

“You’re Australian! My favourite Australian film is The Year My Voice Broke” 

“Really? That’s weird. My mother is in that film”

“Oh my god, is it Loene Carmen? She’s my favourite actress”

“Yes… ugh”

I suspect he had done his research, but Tom Collins took a shining to me at this bar further down south, where I often worked alone, as my boss tried to save costs on staffing. Tom Collins was in my ear non stop commenting on the way I looked, questioning me, rambling, accosting other customers, staying for hours on end at the price of one black coffee. He was a menace to us all. He was loose. Frightening. Hard work. Twisted. I’d have nightmares about him murdering me, and in fact, it turned out he left a hand-scribbled note in an empty DVD case for my bosses saying “you need to stop hiring filthy immigrants, tell Holiday to watch out, she’s going to get hurt”. They didn’t tell me about this, but they told the other staff. Eventually one of the girls told me, because she rightly thought it was unethical not to, and wanted me to be aware. I confronted my boss about it, he said he spoke to the police and they said until he did something to me, they couldn’t put a restraining order on him.

We were an interesting collection of beautiful young women trapped in the weekly “wage-cycle” (as a rich friend of mine liked to point out), working two jobs to cover rent, whilst also pursuing a career (usually in something creative). 

G was well educated, eloquent and fiercely witted, with a posh accent. She came from a family of famous architects and being the black swan wrote alternative poetry-laden music and took arty photos of filth in the cafe -like the bucket of gray water they made us wash cups in to save costs on water bills. She had a mildly famous Canadian musician boyfriend who often had her in tears of rage and embitterment. We’d catch them stalking each other down the street with arms flinging in the air mid-argument. She’s a like a pig in shit, just like me, in cynicism and unravelling the uglier sides of life.

K was raised by lesbian moms like me, and worked at a bookstore part time. Sometimes when I had no money left for lunch she would cook for me or offer to lend me cash. She was no bullshit; a protector. I will never forget watching this frazzled couple in the midst of an epic fight (several bottles of wine deep and in direct earshot), when the man cried out, humorlessly “we were the love story of the century!”, to which the woman drunkenly retorted “you broke my heart, my art and my arse!” at which point we both dropped to the floor behind the counter howling with silent laughter - “Did she just say Arse?”. We would sometimes put Bedtime Beethoven on the stereo 30 minutes before close to calm the drunken baby adults and kill the vibe. K bravely confronted a couple that had been fucking in the toilet cubicle (who had left jizz on the mirror) by eloquently explaining why it was disrespectful to her and others. It was like listening to an in-depth lecture from a brilliant ethics professor, as the dirty doers nodded their heads and whimpered away. I think the poor sod even went and cleaned his mess. No tips. We went to see O (a young French actress/waitress colleague) in her first play at The Globe and nearly got kicked out for hollering words of praise at her drunk in the rain from the “pleb” section of the theatre. Isn’t that what shakespearean times were all about? They should be lucky we didn’t have rotten vegetables to throw! 

H was a petite Australian woman who called everyone Darling and remembered every deranged patchouli scented, botox lipped, feral cat breeder customer’s name and order and became our manager. This put her in the uncomfortable position of trying to be our friend, while having the responsibility of reprimanding us. There were two Swedish girls with blonde hair, annoyingly svelte, poised and pretty. One told me that she didn’t understand what was so great about sex and that she usually just stared at the ceiling. I told her she must be doing it wrong or sleeping with the wrong people. Maybe she was a-sexual. She made great Kannellbullen at Christmas. 

S was somehow smiling and frowning at the same time; a slight look of perplexity and frustration mingled with soft care and concern. She played saxophone and danced flamenco. She laughed often, and it was a brilliant laugh. She was wise. She’d suffered a small brain aneurysm in her teen years and I like to credit this for the fantastic, bizarre and original clothing items and combinations she put together. I adored her. Her father was a painter, who went blind, but started making the best paintings of his life!

N was from a small village in Russia. She was a former classical guitarist and currently moonlighting as a Silent Film scholar who would frequently visit Vienna for festivals where fabulous nonagenarian silent stars would make grand appearances in furs and wheelchairs. She was totally divine, smouldering and tactile. R was polish catholic and looked like a soviet era high school teacher, she had great hair. She learned English very quickly on the job, and came to London to make music with a British producer/boyfriend about 20 years her senior, a fraught dynamic. When I walked in the door she would say “rrrock chic, I like your staiyle” (slight Borat accent) “mm, hee-pi staiyle”. I let her ruin my life and (I like to believe) a budding romance with a wealthy art dealer by asking her to trim my fringe one day -“hmm, space age! I like!”. My eyes popped out of their sockets at the bowl cut left behind. We were even when King Khan came in to the bar to visit me. He was doing a Jodorowsky tarot reading when she half-screamed half-squealed, visibly distressed, saying it was the work of the devil and not to do these things around her. She was probably right.  

A had long wavy blonde hair, was always sensible, smart and rational; she had a very long term boyfriend who wasn’t nearly as beautiful as her. One afternoon she turned to me and whispered in a slight panic “is that Johnny Depp? I can’t serve him, please can we swap!”. I looked at this wanker impersonator and said “no, it’s just some handsome try-hard wearing the same hat, you serve him”. The man went downstairs and within two minutes the regulars were coming up excitedly saying “is that Johnny Depp?”. I laughed them off, saying “of course not!” and went to serve him tea. Within minutes paparazzi had turned up and yes, the actual Johnny Depp shuffled out of the cafe. Kevin Spacey was a regular I never recognised either, he often sat in the disintegrating floral armchair in the corner. I suppose he’s still there, metaphorically speaking. The only famous customer I recognised was Wayne Swan (deputy Australian prime minister and treasurer). “Swanny!” I said, as if knew him, “Wanna beer?”. We sat down over candlelight together and discussed political gossip and the future of the Great Barrier Reef, he was animated and generous and it really felt like we *were *old friends by the end. 

Early one morning a homeless elderly man came in demanding a hot breakfast. We didn’t serve hot food at the cafe, so we offered the man crisps, cake, tea and whatever we had really. I’m pretty sure we offered cash too! He staunchly refused to settle for anything less and continued to demand a hot breakfast from our non existent kitchen. After much back and forth, the sensible and rational Ms. *A *said (in a painfully literal example, so ridiculous it did make me scoff) “Look, beggars can’t be choosers sir!”. 

The third memorable experience I share with Ms. A is one of those darker experiences you can’t quite believe is real. I went downstairs to mop the toilet cubicle floor at the end of the night shift, switched on the big light… and found blood pooled and smeared all over the floor with what looked like a portion of someone’s intestine. In total shock and horror (the kind where you start laughing -the pseudobulbar affect?) I went upstairs to *A *and said “I think someone has been stabbed and some of their insides have fallen out or something, what do I do?”. She was working at the hospital part time while training to become a dietician, so I thought she would be able to deal with it better than I. She got the torch for the coffee machine and looked at the piece of human tissue on the floor, it was… clearly a foetus, half the size of my thumb. Some poor woman had miscarried at a bar and walked away. I like to hope and believe she was really drunk and didn’t even realise it happened or know that she was pregnant. It felt like something you should have a clean up crew in white SOCO suits deal with. We wrapped it in a tissue and flushed it, and I mopped up the blood with a weird sense of guilt, disgust and disbelief. £5.90 an hour for this was NOT worth it. We told our boss what had happened, he didn’t know what to say and offered us a shot of Honey Krupnik and a £20 tip each for our troubles.

100 metres from the bar, on my way home that night there was a man lying on the side walk with blood pouring from every orifice. I stopped and stared at him -eyes glazed over, wondering if he was still breathing and what fresh hell I entered into that day. A gang of men who I assumed where responsible, ran past hollering. Thankfully, someone else who had the emotional wherewithal had stopped too and was calling an ambulance. I sauntered away.

Then there was a regular customer called E who was 6’2 with white hair, who spoke Spanish and looked like Zeus. He worked on construction sites and made art. I ended up at his house one night after a flamenco show at Sadler’s Wells. Between the energetic handclapping and dramatic guitar strums, something very bizarre happened to me. I kept hearing a voice telling me to “go to E” and the next thing I know (I didn’t even have his phone number or address) he is standing in front of me opening the door to his home in a grass skirt with a warlock cane with a skull on it, listening to forest trance. This is really weird, but he walked on my back and honestly I think he did some voodoo on me. He said he was roman catholic. I never spoke about it again until now, deeply disturbed by the memory. At one point he was homeless and swimming in public pools to wash. He grew a long white beard like Gandalf, I avoided speaking to him like the plague unable to process this strange memory, and the following Christmas, he brought me a children’s book called “The Gigantic Beard That Was Evil”. He also gifted the cafe a Twin Peaks Log-Lady style log and emailed me an image of him naked, crouched on it. H-E-L-P. 

Fairly, I was nearly fired one night for getting drunk and letting a cute director I was flirting with stick around after hours while I did a sloppy job of cleaning and spilled the giant bucket of sour milk that we collected under the counter. My mother visited at the end of my tenure and said I was a terrible waitress, blunt and dispassionate. You get that way after a while. I mostly enjoyed teasing the posh boys from Eton in their penguin suits after charity events and placating the dumb oil refinery guy who came once a month and tipped us 20s for every espresso martini.

I’ll leave you with a fun little story of the bosses catholic priestly dad telling me I needed to be saved (from Hell) for having shared a hotel room with my boyfriend at the time. I decided in that moment that I would very much like to corrupt his country boy son who had just moved to the big city and joined our ranks. I took him to Dalston Superstore for a Gay Bear night, where he told me wide eyed that a couple of MEN were loudly doing things to each other in the cubicle next to him. Maybe I am going to hell. Maybe this whole time in my life was hell, but either way -you better work, bitch.