The worst of all days if you work in any kind of restaurant is Christmas day. The day where you wake up at six, wish your family a Merry Christmas, and then leave the house to trudge to work in order to fulfill every other family's Christmas day wishes except your own. The pay isn't even worth it; those extra few pounds and maybe a few tips don't make up for missing out on sitting in front of the fire watching a film and playing with your new toys (it doesn't matter that you're 25, you still love toys). And it's sheer torture having to take all those Christmas dinners out, to pour glasses of wine and champagne, to watch snow fall over the pub garden benches, and realise Christmas is basically going to be over by the time your shift finishes. It's a sad business; never do it.
I love Stephen King and music festivals; I eat my toast upside down; I daydream about getting married probably a bit too much; and I wish every day for a pet sausage dog puppy (who never materialises – sob).
