Washed up

Hello, it's me again. My second assignment after the burns unit also involved the scorching of skin. Disillusioned with my first agency, I tried a new one who looked shocked when I told them what I'd had to do in my first job. My rep- a very bubbly blonde called Sandra- said that I'd have a much better time at Agency X and that they treated all of their temps like family. Well, remind me never to go round to hers for Christmas dinner, because the assignment was a shambles.

Sandra asked me if I'd ever done silver service before. One of the oldest tricks in the Temps' Bible is to lie whenever asked if you have a particular skill. Unless it's neuroscience or ukelele-playing, the chances are you'll be able to pick it up as you go along. So I said yes, of course I'd done silver service. I then went to make the lie even more horrific by claiming my parents had owned a high-class restaurant and that I had often stood in for the Maitre D. My parents never even went near a chip shop, let alone a restaurant, but I needed the money and a temp's gotta do what a temp's gotta do, right?

I arrived for my first day as a waiter at a huge marquee at the side of a racecourse. I was met by a stressed guy called Marcel (French name, Essex accent) who told me that he hoped he wouldn't have to fire me because all he'd done all week was fire shit waiters. I smiled and reassured him that I was the hottest piece of waiting ass this fucker was ever likely to get his hands on, inwardly shitting myself at my stupidity for lying.

He directed me to an Eiffel Tower of washing up and told me to 'get busy'. I duly did as I was told and made my way through it. It soon became clear that the only waiting I was going to be doing would be waiting for the sink to fill up with hot water. As my lunch hour approached, Marcel came to me and instead of letting me go on a break he grabbed me by the shoulders, shoved a huge platter full of meat in my hand and pushed me out of some swivel doors into a marquee lined with tables, at which sat some of the richest, fattest people I've ever seen. I did my best but my best didn't seem to be good enough for these toffs who looked to be really enjoying telling a 17-year-old what to do. As the sweat poured off my head into their lunch, I was told a million times that I was useless, impolite, surly and, oddly, too young- all without opening my trap once.

As the diners cleared out, Marcel once more grabbed me by the shoulders and flung me back to my sink station. When I asked if I could have a break, he told me I could go after I'd washed up. Now, if this was happening now, Marcel would have got a plate in every hole with ten dishes right up his arse, but I was young and clueless so I did as I was told. When I'd almost finished, I asked again about a break, whereupon Marcel fired me on the spot. My apron was ripped from me and I was forcibly removed from the marquee.

I visited Sandra the next day to explain the injustice. She looked me squarely in the face and said "If you can't stand the heat, stay out of the fucking kitchen, love. And don't think you're getting paid."