I can't believe I forgot this one...
A new manager started in a manically busy cafe I used to work in. He called himself (and I swear this is no word of a lie) 'Benjamin Ethan Powers'. His real name, it turned out (after he was sacked for stealing the Princess Diana Memorial money to buy himself a camel-skin coat) was Ed Shrimpton. Prize prick. Anyway...

One day we were making drinks, trays and trays of orders stacking up, just the two of us to boil, froth, blend, slice and steam our way through the afternoon. Normally he'd stand and watch me, or click his fingers (yes really) to make me do something. Like the wet teen I was, I did as I was told until I begged him to help out rather than just standing and watching me spin plates. It was frantic, horrible stuff.

So he helped.

He got so confused, so stressed, and was so utterly clueless about what needed to be done, he had a fit and lay like a twitching plank on the floor, arms at his sides, feet pointed, foaming at the mouth.

I distinctly remember glancing down at him, glancing back at the mounting trays, once more back at him, then I stepped over him and carried on grating a flake onto a hot chocolate.

I still don't feel guilty.
(The Moop, Fri 11 Jun 2010, 14:24, Reply)