Gratitude

Everyone says they hate working in the strip club…everyone is always waiting for the time to go home, or their day off, or when they will eventually get out of there for good. Everyone is always complaining about how there isn’t enough money, it used to be so much better, how the place is full of wankers, the DJ is shit, the customers are all twats and the hours are terrible. I myself am definitely guilty of that on many occasions but whenever we get together outside of work and have a few drinks we all seem to come to the joint conclusion that its actually a pretty dam good job. Where else can you earn 600 to a grand a week after tax standing round doing fuck all most of the time? Where else can you text your manager to tell him you aren’t coming in an hour before your shift starts on account of the fact that you are out getting pissed and don’t feel like it? Where else can you take an 8 month holiday and come back to your job exactly as though you had never left? Is there really any other job where you get to drink expensive vintage champagne and eat continental cheese platters all on the customers expense?

Ok so its not exactly impressive when you meet new people and they turn to you confrontingly at the dinner table and ask the obligatory question ‘SO…what do you do?’ , ‘uh'...slight hesitation while my mind works out the best response based on the current company - all upstanding members of the community, concerned with the best solution for social housing in the North West and how to make the perfect beef wellington - shit, I don't have an alternative... 'I’m a waitress’... and yes, you heard right before, I did actually turn thirty last year. ‘Oh, where do you work?’ and then you decide whether it is going to be disadvantageous for you to tell this particular person the exact details of your employment.

People who it may be unadvisable to tell: the letchy boy at the bus stop who is trying to chat you up at 4 in the morning after you have just finished work and he has just spent the last 5 hours unsuccessfully looking for something to shag, the young bar tender at your dad’s local pub after your socially retarded father drunkenly dragged him over, for you to tell them that you are a ‘very special’ waitress (why dad, why?)… I don’t think it’s anything to be ashamed of personally, its just that sometimes to make life in the immediate future easier you just smile and say ‘La Tasca’.