This weekend, I was on my third shift, and the hardest. I knew it was going to be hard, purely based on who was sharing my shift and the number of bookings we had. I was grateful to work though - we had a high tea party in that I had booked and was looking forward to seeing and arranging. 

But. It’s a Saturday. Saturdays are always slightly mental. Especially when teamed up with our wonderful but very scattered Nell. She’s a great woman with a tiny, shrewish face and figure, and a way of listening that makes you feel like she actually gives a shit. But, dear God, there are times I want to strangle her. 

If you’ve worked in hospitality, you’ll know that there are certain priorities. It’s like a running list that continually moves. Right now, the priority might be getting the 6 drinks orders finished. But if you get an impatient customer at the counter, your priority needs to shift, because some people don’t give a damn that 6 other people are patiently waiting for their drinks which are now going cold on the counter because some impatient fucker wants um and ah over the menu before finally deciding no they actually don’t want food, they’d rather just have a take away coffee. 

And, breathe. 

The cafe is a constantly shifting battleground, in that sense. There is always something to fight with, all whilst the ground is moving underneath you. Oh and someone keeps changing the goal posts. 

Who ever said a simple life is dull? 

Working with Nell, whilst it has really great, fun moments and we get on, it’s also like trying to herd cats. Which therefore means my job goes from working in a dynamic duo to running the place whilst filling in around Nell. It isn’t necessary to empty a bin while a customer has been sort of served (they’ve only managed to place their drinks order so far) and there are 3 more behind that one. Honestly, the bin can wait. I promise, it isn’t going anywhere. It’s not like we have rats climbing it and waving flags at us. It can wait for 10 minutes. Pinky promise. 

The day always starts with a promise. Oh there aren’t too many customers, great, I can get the dishes cleared, I can fold napkins, I can clean the - holy shit, there are a gazillion hungry and thirsty customers! It tends to go downhill from there. Sometimes, you’re lucky and it goes back up the other side of the valley of doom, but generally, on the weekend, it’s a downhill free fall, all the way. 

This particular day promised to be particularly hectic. There were multiple lunch bookings, a high tea booking, plus random extra bookings that had been made by phone, written on a scrap of paper, which was misplaced (and later found on the floor of the staff toilet) and only half remembered. One of the big lunch bookings was a table of elderly/retired people from a new retirement complex around the corner. They visited for lunch every Saturday and reserved a bunch of our specials - and usually didn’t actually buy those and requested something else instead. They are also of the strange generation between the really old who remember the war and are grateful, and those who are too young but whose parents were grateful, and generally complain about everything, without actually complaining, and expect us poor staff to anticipate their every need, excuse me, where is my food on the silver platter borne on the tanned, muscular shoulders of servant men. 

Aside from screaming babies, these are our least favourite customers. 

Naturally, the owner is keen to impress them and keep them happy, so they don’t run back to the retirement complex and tell everyone there to avoid our cafe like the plague. So, we treat them like the royalty they think they are. And swear at them in the kitchen to each other. You will often find us in there, hidden behind the kitchen, pulling faces, swearing profusely, but silently and ranting. Then, rant over, we slap smiles on our faces, and go back to making every customer feel special. 

Which is an important point to make. Each of our customers has the potential to be special. Not every one of them is, although we will treat them as individuals and as special as we can, but certain customers get promoted to being special. 

Before this large table of retirement lunches arrived, there was a minor/major fuck up. Table reservation signs had gone out, all correctly from the bookings in the diary. One of them called to say they’d be a half hour late. Eyeball deep in coffees when I was told, I shrugged - what could I do? There was no need for the table afterwards, and no one wants to sit on reserved tables. It would be fine. Then a couple of young women arrive for their table. In the meantime, another lady had called to reserve a table for two, which had been made. Assuming the young women were that booking, I put them on that table. (This, folks, is what happened when too many people get involved.) Then the phone lady appeared with her friend - regulars of ours - and there was no table. The young ladies I had placed on a table had a table already booked - for 2 hours after the time they actually appeared at, so someone else was sat at their table. 

Well, shit. 

One of our regulars - first-name-basis, same-drink-every-time kind of regular - was sat on a table, and was only too happy to give it up to move. She was my saviour that day. Both couples got seated, and both were happy. Crisis sorted. 

This meant my table reservations were wonky. Which meant suddenly I was on edge about the whole table situation for the afternoon. As I stood, trying to get my head around the reservations, discussing it with the owner to get clarity, Nell arrived and tried saying something else. Unfortunately, my brain can only process so much information - kinda like a normal human brain - and I couldn’t take it in. I had to tell Nell to please, let me finish about the reservations and the times, so I could make sure it was all going on correctly and our high tea and big royalty lunch would actually have their seats at the right time. 

I was polite, I promise. 

Finally, after getting a smidge nervous that my royalty lunches wouldn’t have a table because a father and daughter were STILL waiting for their lunch, they left and I had time to make the table look good. They’re a fun bunch, our retired. Generally speaking, most of our retired customers are wonderful. Some are shitbags. Most are fab. These ones, they’re a mix. A couple are lovely and kind and patient. Another couple of them have resting bitch face (honestly didn’t know retired people could have such a thing) and complain about everything, without actually complaining, as I’ve explained. This day, they actually were fine (aside from Mr Complaints). 

Then the fun starts. Laying a table nicely for the high tea. This is a hotly fought over job in the cafe. We all love it - it’s, as some of us affectionately refer to it, the ‘pretty shit’. Like arranging flowers on the table. It’s at the total other end of the spectrum from emptying the food bin... 

For the high teas, they get table cloths (a variety of vintage ones that seriously clash at times, but are ‘vintage’ so we get away with it), the beautiful china instead of the cheap stuff we use everyday, and the cutest damn spoons and forks you’ve ever seen. We set the table up with the most adorable tea cosies we have (I’m talking ones with pumpkins and hedgehogs on, honestly so cute), flowers, candles, and - most importantly - the high tea stands, tiered platters to present the stunning food on. 

This particular table I was very proud of. It looked beautiful and autumnal, with deep blues and greens in the china and table cloth, balanced by vibrant reds, oranges and a splash of yellow. Then they arrived. We would roll out a red carpet if we had one, but instead we greet them and talk to them and generally make them feel as welcome as possible. 

This family were just adorable, right from the start. The arranger, the granddaughter, arrived with her grandfather first. He almost tottered over backwards as he removed his hand from his cane to shake my hand. I almost died, but he recovered! Panic over! 

The rest arrived, some having come down from Liverpool (a good 4-5 hour drive for those non-natives) and celebrations started with bottomless teapots being filled all round. They were all tickled pink when I presented them with little bells so they could ring for more tea - eat your heart out, Downton, the classy shit happens in our cafe. 

Finally the food arrives. Little triangles of sandwiches (none of that cucumber shit - we serve our cucumbers with tuna mayo) plus vol-au-vents filled with home made coronation chicken - I’m one jealous veggie, let me tell you. Our sarnies are pretty damn awesome but then you have the sweets. Good god, you’ll need to undo a button, because you will not want to stop eating. Home-made scones (obviously served with lashings of jam and clotted cream), mini Victoria sponges with fresh cream and raspberries, lemon possets, chocolate brownie bites and, my absolute favourite, Welsh cakes. 

Stick a fork in me, I’m done. 

It was about halfway through that I went over to check everything was ok and ask what the occasion was. It was the grandfathers 92nd birthday! I exclaimed and wished him happy birthday and he got all bashful. What an amazing occasion to be a part of. 

Eating time went well. A few bell rings for refreshed tea, and coffees, then it was getting towards the end. God bless them, they stacked a single stand with all the food they wanted to take away - they can definitely come again - and were so thankful. The organiser waxed lyrical about how much they’d all loved it, including her grandfather who had now left with others from the family while the rest paid. He had apparently loved our music, which is all vintage war-time music - of course, he’d remember it all when it was new! 

I’d turned to clean, then turned back and there was the grandfather. He had shuffled all the way back into my shop to tell me how wonderful it all was and how much he loved the music. That he knew people who played in the bands when they were new songs and it was a blast from his youth, in a very good way. 

Can anyone else hear my heart melting? 

That, more than anything, that heart felt, meaningful moment, is why we do what we do. I can’t tell you how many people of the older generation I have tell me how much they love coming to us for the music and the china and the friendliness of us all. That it reminds them of their youth, of their days in the sun. 

And that is why I might have stressful days but, ultimately, I come home to collapse on my sofa with a full heart.