Dear staff and patrons of Teasels Coffee Shop...

Dear staff and patrons of Teasels Coffee Shop...

I hate my job. I'm not doing it because I like it. I've already lost my phone and my sanity will be next.

Which is because I am the worst waitress in the entire world.

Dear Big Fat Chef Man And His Hungover Assistant,

You rock. Thank you for rocking. Specifically, thank you for having a sense of humour and being able to talk and make cakes at the same time and also not being anal-retentive about every little thing.

Did I mention I am the worst waitress in the entire world?

Dear Blonde Waitress at Till,

So I can't stack plates to save my life. I have eight fucking A*s at GCSE, and don't you forget it. Bitch.

I'm not usually such an intellectual snob. Something about the job brings out my snarky side.

Dear Nice Man With Very Gay Son,

Thank you for being nice. Thank you for being the only people to tip in five hours of waitressing.

Fifty pence. Fifty bloody pence and I'm pathetically grateful.

Dear People Waiting For Their Baguettes For Forty-Five Minutes,

I have no bloody idea where your baguettes are. I'm only a waitress, ie walking piece of furniture.

They got a refund. Blah.

Dear Lisa/Lauren/Jodie/every other waitress ever,

My name is Iona. Iona. Hebridean island, four letters, three syllables. How difficult can it be?

Evidently, very.

Dear Rt. Hon. Tony Blair,

Thank you for minimum wage.

Sincerely,

~Raven.