“I have one job and I’m going to do it”
director of the pub.
So I suggested a compromise. I’d do the washing-up and someone else would do the eggs.
But when I walked into the pub kitchen earlier this morning, Freya insisted she was no good at frying eggs and declared that I was much better at the task.
“I’ll do the washing-up,” she said, grabbing a cloth. “No,” I replied. “I’ll only work in this kitchen if I’m doing the washing-up.”
Ihavemy own system, having been tutored by the master washer-upper Beau Brummie.
“She’s adamant,” Mr Grigg said. “And besides, Freya, you’ll do a great job.”
Although she was not confident, here she is now, frying eggs like a demon as the orders come in.
The plates go out via the waitresses, the Fragrant Mrs Putter, Mrs Let’s Get Busy, Mrs Prayer and Mrs Biggie, and come back a while later completely empty.
I’m up to my elbows in soap suds as I do a pre-wash before filling up the dishwasher.
Freya, now on a roll after a triumphant stint at egg frying, wants to help me.
I’m having none of it. I have one job and I’m going to do it.
I tell her, “No, thank you”, and then find myself barking at Mrs Biggie, who has come into the kitchen through a different door, which is in danger of mucking up my system.
“But that’s the way we always do it,” she says. “Not today.”
I don’t know what’s got into me. I’m not normally this assertive.
A bit later on, when Mrs Biggie comes in through the correct door, I apologise for my outburst.
She just laughs, although she says she’s informed all the waitresses that she’s been told off.
“It was very wrong of me. I’m so sorry,” I say.
Then Mrs Prayer comes in and tells me not to worry – they’re all thick skinned.
“But I’m not,” I wail.
If Mrs Biggie had had words with me in the way I had spoken to her, I would have climbed into the dishwasher in terror.
Meanwhile, while I’m fretting about upsetting someone when actually they’re fine about it, Mr Grigg has just cut himself after delving into the bin to retrieve a broken plate.
With all the fuss over my washing-up fiefdom, I’d failed to notice that blood was pouring from my husband’s finger.
Thanks to Mrs Poppins and the first aid kit, the flow is stemmed.
Mr Grigg and Freya leaf through their food orders.
It has been a good morning.
The farmers have had a good old natter over breakfast, unaware of the drama in the kitchen.