“I’m full, I’m just not ready to stop eating.” These were the last words to go through my mind, and possibly the cause of a lifetime of having four more kilos than I would prefer. I am NEVER mentally prepared for the end of my meal. In fact, no matter how delicious it is, about half way through, I start fantasising about what is going to come next. I look in awe at the 50% of clients in work who refuse the dessert menu, proclaiming themselves to have “assez mangé” -eaten enough. (Although it might be that I have in fact been offering them the ‘desert’ menu instead, as was pointed out to me by a helpful but prissy client today -the dessert/desert minefield equally hazardous en français). This “assez mangé” is a feeling with which I am not overly familiar. Possibly because when I go out to a restaurant, I will often have spent the previous week or so fantasising about what I will have, and the five to ten minutes it usually takes me to imbibe it is not quite enough to make up for this. However, having tried on an old pair of jeans this morning and found them positively roomy, it transpires that working in ‘restaurantation’ is very good for the santé, and the daily scoops of ice cream haven’t caught up with me yet. ‘Yet’ being the operative word here though, I fear. It is only a matter of time before my metabolism twigs that something is amiss here. “ICE CREAM, you say?? And CHEESE??? EVERY DAY, you say? Thyroid, what is the meaning of this?? This woman is 32 years of age, this cannot continue. Fatten her up, immediately. And give her spots while you’re at it. She deserves them.” Christmas is sure to help matters though, and the jeans will soon be mocking me again, with their sneakily moveable buttons.
I’ve noticed that the multiple daily errors have abated significantly in work. Finally. They made a brief reappearance the other night when a bunch of people in headscarves ordered five complicated versions of hot chocolate -Muslims LOVE hot chocolates apparently. (I hate making them and feel an article for the Daily Mail coming on about “How Hot Chocolate Made Me Racist”). I got overwhelmed and all of a sudden recommenced dropping utensils and generally making a hames of things. It was then that I realised -Oh. It was stress all along. That’s was what that thing was, making me borderline malfunctional. This is a terrible habit I have, of not recognising that I am stressed, until I am no longer stressed. Had you asked me two weeks ago whether I was stressed in work, I would have vehemently denied it, and said that no, I wasn’t stressed, I was just useless. However, I can now see that it was the other way around. I’m often like that in general -I tend not to notice inconveniences and irritations. For example, I’m forever finding mystery bruises that I have no recollection of acquiring. (And I’m not always drunk, so it isn’t that either…) I had a dentist once who could not understand how I didn’t remember giving my a tooth enough of a bash to blacken it permanently, and a doctor who couldn’t understand how my dislocated toe was as much of a mystery to me as it was to her. However, this is no great feat of stoicism -it is generally just not being terribly aware of what’s going on in my body. And sometimes outside of it too. Unless,of course, it is a runny nose. THEN, both I and all around me me know all about it. One of the worst forms of misery, if you ask me, and annoyingly, the one thing you’re not really allowed to complain about. “Oh sure it’s just a head cold”. JUST a head cold!!! I need my head!! For crucial activities, like seeing, thinking and BREATHING! A head cold impairs the one bodily function that is so crucial that you will last about four minutes without it, and yet, the majority of the Western world seem not to be too bothered by it. I can only conclude that I am getting THE WORST head colds of all of the people. But maybe I am just a whinge bag. However, fortunately, this particular whinge bag has finally calmed the frick down, and is now a passable waitress. In fact, I had my first fight with a customer last night, of which I am very proud! Normally, this would not be a source of pride, but it was in French, and therefore to be celebrated. Plus, the cause of the argument was not my fault in the slightest, which in itself is cause for opening a bottle of something fizzy and alcoholic.
I have intentions of doing that very thing this evening as it happens, and the Hungarian (which makes her sound like a warrior from the Middle Ages) and the German and I are meeting for a ‘girls night’. We were supposed to also have the Mexican who I have never met, but apparently she is not available. We are having an apero or two in my place to start out with, and heading afterwards for the Christmas markets. I am considering slugging a bottle cider all by myself in advance, so that they don’t get alarmed at the pace at which I always inhale my first drink, but this notion is niggling at me in a way that doesn’t quite sit right, so I’d better not.. Oh she’s Irish alright.