Matt Micheli, fired from his job as a telemarketer, finds himself at a temping agency, seeking solace in the one industry that doesn’t care. Manual labour.
Commuter hell. They were supposed to be on strike. I have sunk the best part of a bottle of whiskey in anticipation for travel chaos leading to a day in bed eating toast.
I look beside me at the 24 foot table replete with 350 identically polished glasses arranged in neat diamond-like rows. Boring? This is events catering.
Today I am at a famous London hotel. All complete bollocks as I stare into the abyss of the staff changing room, with the smell of BO and shoe polish all too prevalent.