1. The customer who orders a big round of drinks. One. At. A. Time.
They think you’re too stupid to get it right if they just tell you them all at once. Inevitably, they’ll want a Guinness, and, inevitably, it will be the last thing they remember to mention.
2. The person who dumps their money down onto the wet bar
Your outstretched hand is right there, but actual, physical contact with a service worker is below them. Instead, they make you fish it out from a sticky pool of spilled beer.
3. The one with the ridiculous order - like coffee
It’s 11pm on a Saturday night, the place is absolutely rammed with sweaty people craving booze - making a cappuccino is going to take ages. Why are they even at a bar? Why do they even exist?
Sometimes I wonder if I love working in a pub so much just because I can moan with other bar staff about this stuff. Either way: I have served every single one of these people.
peter doig exhibition @ scottish national, edinburgh - worth a visit
I am never going to learn to count past 10 in Hindi. NEVER.
The cries abate, like all cries. (That is to say they stop.) The murmurs cease, they give up. The voice begins again (it begins trying again). Quick now before there is none left, no voice left, nothing left but the core of murmurs, distant cries: quick now and try again, with the words that remain. Try what? (I don’t know, I’ve forgotten, it doesn’t matter, I never knew.) To have them carry me into my story, the words that remain? (My old story, which I’ve forgotten, far from here.) Through the noise, through the door. Perhaps I’m at the door! (That would surprise me.) Perhaps it’s I! Perhaps somewhere or other it was I! I can depart! All this time I’ve journeyed without knowing it: it’s I now at the door. (What door? What’s a door doing here?)