Pot Walloping

Call me old fashioned, but I prefer to let the other half do the washing up after dinner. Thats why I was reluctant to take the job as chief pot walloper, in a busy restaurant in South Dublin. The head chef assured me it was a handy number, so I agreed to give it a whirl. The night started slowly with a trickle of plates arriving at the dishwasher. "This is a doddle" I said to myself. "Washing dishes ain't so bad after all" I thought. I even had time to scrape the dregs out of the Knicker-bocker glory glasses, and finish off the steaks left over by customers. Then the tsunami hit. Waiters suddenly ran at me from all directions, with plates full of discarded food stacked up to their chins. The dishwasher was only half way through the first cycle, and there was already two hundred bone china plates of all sizes stacked up on the counter, not to mention the buckets full of knives and forks at my feet. The chef started to scream for more clean plates. Then he threw eight large grease filled roasting tins at me, and said he needed them back spotless in five minutes. That's when Silvio flipped, no amount of half eaten Knicker-bocker glories or partly chewed T-Bone steaks could keep me in a job like that. "You can wash your own f@*king plates" I shouted as I made for the side door, with a full belly. That was one crap job I'll never forget, neither will the chef in that restaurant.