13:03

Consciousness hits me like a brick. I sit up, gasping for air, naked and alone with little to no memory of the night before. It is not unlike being born.

13:10

An unquenchable thirst forces me out of bed. I stick my head under the bathroom tap at full blast and glug several pints of water.

13:12

I dispose of a Subway wrapper on my bedside. It appears I did enjoy six inches last night but not the kind I was hoping for.

13:15

My phone alarm goes off. “Work at 2pm”, it blinks. I whack a pizza in the oven and get in the shower.

13:32

I take a burnt pizza out the oven and dangle it into my mouth slice-by-slice as I try to dry my hair.

13:45

I charge out the house, slam the front door and attempt to lock it whilst buttoning my shirt. Success. I sprint down the road.

13:53

The automatic doors swing open at my entrance. A dog tied to the basket rack starts barking. I stomp down the aisle with my head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone who might try and converse with me before I’m getting paid for it.

13:54

Staff room. Beep-beep. I’ve clocked in. There are some cookies from this morning’s bake left on the side. I eat four.

13:55

Five minutes to spare. Red-faced and sweaty, I lock myself in the chiller, which is essentially a 10x5x4 glorified refrigerator. The smell of sour milk lingers but the cool air feels too good for me to care.

13:59

The door opens. I scream.

“AAHH!”

The entrant, also, screams.

“AAHH!”

Then, “What are you doing in here?”

“It’s humid out, okay?”

“No, I mean, what are you doing here, at the store?”

“I always work Sundays.”

My shift runner’s face collapses into a mixed expression of joy and relief, kind of like an excitable puppy or the look on a boy in a club after you agree to go back with them.

“That’s fantastic news. Thank god you’re here, we’ve been so understaffed today.”

I smile sweetly.

“Oh stop, I’m just turning up to my shift, I’m not an angel.”

“Yes, well, now that you’re here…” – he passes me a mop – “Some kid ate too many Haribos and threw up in the sweets aisle. Work me a miracle, angel.”

14:21

The sandwiches need refilling. We’re supposed to arrange them so that the older sandwiches sell first, but life is short and I’m on £7.70 hour so I just shove the fresh sandwiches in front of the old ones. I see my co-worker.

“Hey, you alright?”

“Yeah not bad… Have you done something with your hair? Looks nice.”

 “I… washed it?”

“Oh. Yeah that must be it.”

15:55

Chucking Warburtons onto the bread rack, I notice a woman looking up and down the shelves. She looks confused.

“Can I help you?”

“Oh, yes please…. Where do you keep ice?”

Not in the fucking bakery

“In the freezer.”

“Excuse me?”

Too blunt?

“…which” – I smile with all my teeth showing – “…is this way, let me show you.”

Nice save.

17:02

An attractive man brushes past me in the drinks aisle.

“Oops, sorry.”

This is likely the most sexual contact I will have whilst living under my parents’ roof this summer.

18:00

Break time. I inhale a meal deal. Mid-Innocent smoothie, the security guard puts the kettle on and sits down next to me in the staff room.

“Hey, have you seen this new—”

“Don’t fucking talk to me.”

18:34

After my break, Greg asks me to fill produce.

Golden apples, orange carrots, purple beetroot. Red, green, yellow peppers.

I try and remember the last time I ate something that wasn’t beige.

19:00

Seven o’clock. Greg puts me on tills.

19:09

I serve a customer who looks vaguely familiar but I can’t place where from. Then it clicks: Tinder match. His bemused expression suggests he has just made the same realisation. I can tell by the look of dismay that follows that we both feel catfished.

19:23

There is an Eastern European man forty years my senior who visits the shop every day. Every day, he is insistent that a woman serve him. He drags out every transaction for as long as he can and never breaks eye contact. He definitely keeps a mental record of all the female employees for masturbatory purposes. Any and all interaction with this grotesque individual never fails to make my skin crawl and bile rise in my throat.

“You are nice with hair down”, he grunts.

If I am found dead in a ditch with all my hair cut off, this is your best lead.

“Thanks.”

I make a mental note to never wear my hair down at work again.

“No, thank you…” – he leans in – “…Zoe.”

Name badge. Classic power move. Every girl is acutely aware of its particular bodily placement which creepy old perverts ogle with no subtlety; in fact, they want you to know. I thank my lucky stars I’m wearing the wrong name.

20:05

Reduction time. I have to check every fixture in the shop for products expiring today. I get to the sandwich bay; most don’t go out of date for a couple of days. Wait… right at the back, there is a sandwich with today’s date on it. Two sandwiches. Three! Four… five… six…seven…

My God. There’s loads.

What kind of idiot, what buffoon, what brainless imbecile, would so carelessly and recklessly put the newer products in front of the older ones?

“Who… did this?” I mutter, angrily pulling off all the stock.

Then: “Oh.”

22:00

We’re shut. Finally. Time to cash up. We separate the day’s profits into £500 denominations.

I’ve already used “Shall we take the money and run?” this week. I try a new angle. Holding up a couple of grand in each hand,

“Million pound drop?”

Greg is on an eighteen-hour double shift and does not find this amusing.

22:21

Greg signs off the plastic wallets of cash and drops them into the safe. It’s a one-man job but another person has to be present for legal reasons. I spin around on the swivel chair and make faces at the CCTV camera like I’m Jim from The Office.

22:27

Beep-beep. It’s over.

“Are you in tomorrow?” Greg asks.

I die a little inside.